


Falling Heavenward

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angelology and demonology, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bible Setting, But I promise a happy ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gabriel is a bastard, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Modern Day, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Relationship through time, Resolved Sexual Tension, Shamelessly mixes book and TV canon, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Unresolved Emotional Tension, Young Earth Creationist "History", at least eventually, everything i touch turns to angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-06-28 14:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 47,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19814494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: Aziraphale would forgive him, of course. He always did. That had always been the Hell of it. It had been stupid to think things would be any different this time.It was a game they had been playing a long, long time, and he was all kinds of fool and idiot if he was going to suddenly start taking it seriously, even if only a few days ago he had thought Aziraphale was dead.Our side. It would be nice, really nice, if there was an *our side.* To be honest with himself, there was nothing in all the universe he wanted more.“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he repeated to the closed door, and headed back to the flat to take it out on the plants.7th August--Complete.





	1. Hand-holding in Babylon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [romana03](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romana03/gifts).



**_London._** **Present Day, after the Last Day**

Aziraphale leaned in close across the table as he told Crowley about a performance of Britta Byström’s _Picnic at Hanging Rock_ he was planning to attend.

“It’s like she says herself, a dream within a dream,” he said, pale blue-green eyes shining like round stars. “It feels like—like—well, not like heaven. Like disappearing. I’d give you a copy, but I don’t trust you not to play it in your car and make it be about girls with generous posteriors. But my dear, you really should hear it."

He leaned forward even closer, his hand on the table between them. Crowley eyed it warily.

“I could always download it if you really want me to listen,” he said. He had had an excellent meal, he had even more excellent wine, the world wasn’t going to end and he wasn’t going to take a bath in holy water any time soon, it seemed, so he was willing enough to indulge the angel’s odd passions. Besides, he quite liked music. It was something they had in common. One of the pleasures of the world.

He just wasn’t sure about the hand on the table, and why it had been positioned like that.

“But it must be experienced live. Do you have any plans Friday night?” asked Aziraphale, for whom, like for Crowley, booked out seats were something that happened to someone else.

Crowley looked even more closely at the hand. It was just lying there on the table, expectant. If a hand could be expectant. He was probably imagining it. It was a nice hand, though, beautifully and expensively looked after, and Crowley could smell the rose scent of Aziraphale’s hand cream if he paid attention. “Angel, I don’t have any plans at all any more."

Aziraphale said, “No, no, I suppose not.” He looked a little anxious, and the hand twitched a little as if he was going to think better and draw back. That suddenly felt like the worst possibility in the world.

So Crowley reached out and covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own.

“Well.” Aziraphale seemed to lose track of what he was saying for a moment, the faintest of pink staining the apples of his cheeks. “Well, then I insist you come with me. And,” he added, clearly gaining confidence, “I insist you read the book first."

“I don’t think I’ll have time to read anything. Busy.” Crowley let his fingers coil over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. His skin was warm, and incredibly soft. It possibly justified all the attention lavished on it by Aziraphale’s manicurist.

“You just said you had no plans,” Aziraphale said firmly. His thumb curled around Crowley’s, almost possessively. “It’s nice and short, in any case. And you’ll understand the tone poem better."

“A tone poem? Angel, are you trying to bore me to discorporation?” Crowley tried not to stare at their hands. It was fine. Just because Aziraphale had rarely been the one to initiate touch in sixty centuries. And, after all, he hadn’t really initiated it this time, had he? He had just rested a hand on the table, and Crowley had assumed. Still, there was the thumb to consider.

“It’s beautiful and you will love it. Nice and dramatic and creepy. You approve of creepy."

“Is there a film instead?"

“Well, actually there is.” Aziraphale carried on, making plans, and Crowley let the world spin. They were just sitting in a restaurant together, holding hands. They’d gone to concerts before, and bickered for hours about the performances, without it being anything like the human concept of a date. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t suggested much, much more interesting activities to Aziraphale over the millennia than mere hand holding, and been knocked back each time. It was just that it had always been him doing the pushing before, and now...

He wondered what had come over the angel, and was terrified that it would stop.

When they rose to leave, their hands dropped contact, and that was that, he supposed. Aziraphale didn’t reach for him, and he didn’t reach for Aziraphale. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets instead, and Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, and it didn’t feel like they were walking close enough.

After the frenetic chatter at lunch, Aziraphale was oddly silent. Crowley pulled the car into a nonexistent parking spot by the bookshop, with the haunting feeling that there was something expected of him that he wasn’t doing.

“Well, see you later,” he said, uncertainly.

“Keep in touch,” Aziraphale said. There was something odd about his voice, as if he was trying hard to be casual.

“Keep in touch? I thought we were going to see listen to your blasted tone poem on Friday? Of course I’ll keep in touch."

Aziraphale brightened, as if some cloud Crowley hadn’t even detected had passed. “Naturally. I almost forgot. Well, dear boy, I will see you—"

“Tomorrow,” Crowley said hastily. “You have to give me your book, remember? And there’s a wine bar I wanted to show you. Full of hipsters, but the booze is good and it might be fun to get drunk without having to worry about starting fights and pushing people to evil. I’ll pick you up at eight."

“Right,” Aziraphale said, and his expression was so soft, so glowing, so tender that Crowley gave up on trying to be careful and cool and leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

When he drew back, Aziraphale’s face had collapsed into hurt feelings. “I thought,” the angel said slowly, “that after all we have just been through, you would have given up on all this tempting nonsense. Are you really still trying to earn points with Hell?"

Panic seized Crowley. “No, no of course not. Aziraphale, listen."

The Bentley door closed behind Aziraphale, and the slam of the bookshop door, bell jangling, followed. Crowley sighed and slammed his head on the steering wheel. Aziraphale would forgive him, of course. He always did. That had always been the Hell of it. It had been stupid to think things would be any different this time.

It was a game they had been playing a long, long time, and he was all kinds of fool and idiot if he was going to suddenly start taking it seriously, even if only a few days ago he had thought Aziraphale was dead.

_Our side._ It would be nice, really nice, if there was an _our side._ To be honest with himself, there was nothing in all the universe he wanted more.

“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he repeated to the closed door, and headed back to the flat to take it out on the plants.

****** ****** ***

**_Shinar._** **2200 BCE**

Crawly was beginning to realise that he was not really an Earthly snake, and that some serpentine instincts had failed to transfer with the body transformation. More specifically, he wasn’t sure what to do when the sun went down in the desert, and his blood began to slow with the cold. Dig? Did snakes dig? With their tails or their teeth? But he was aware that he had lost a lot of blood, and he wasn’t sure if digging would make it worse.

He really, really didn’t want to discorporate right now. Not when he was three reports behind and didn’t have much to report anyway except how good the beer was in Babylon. He would be in serious danger of not being sent up to the surface again for a very long time, if ever. He was so close to pulling off something really, really big, he couldn’t afford to have it be stuffed up by dying in the desert like, well, an animal.

He heard human footsteps and tensed, ready to strike. Humans were handy with sticks, and he was _not_ going to discorporate if he could help it. If some human was lost, well, they shouldn’t approach a giant bloody snake in a visibly bad mood.

“No need for that, my beauty,” said a melodious voice. “I mean you no harm— _Crawly_? Well, fancy that. What are you doing here?” There was pleasure in the voice, Crawly registered through the blood loss and cold. Genuine pleasure, from an angel discovering a demon in the desert, and it didn’t seem to have anything to do with him being wounded and easy to smite.

Aziraphale bent down, his face framed by long white gold curls, his eyes incredibly kind. Crawly’s snake instincts must have reasserted themselves, because he slid up towards the heat, wrapping himself around the warm arm and shoulders, huddling close.

“Oh, dear, you’re bleeding. Whatever have you been up to?” Aziraphale chided gently.

Crawly, much to his embarrassment, just hissed. He was very tired, and hurting. At least he was warmer. The angel was almost, well, heavenly snug, blood thrumming under soft skin.

“I’m not sure if I can heal you,” Aziraphale said, sounding perplexed. “I mean, you’re a demon. There’s a good chance I could hurt you further, or even destroy you. But…” He sighed. “Crawly, I hope you don’t mind, I’m going to take you home. Warmth and food and rest should help."

Crawly, abandoning all dignity, snuggled in closer.

Home turned out to be a rather resplendent brick house near the ziggurat. Crawly had squeezed his retinas shut in exhaustion, but his tongue flickered lazily out to taste the rich scents of the garden in the courtyard before he was carried up. Lots of plants, flowers, fruit… He decided then and there that he liked plants in houses.

Crawley had already figured out by the fine weave and embroidery of the angel’s tunic, the heavy bracelets adorning his arms and the perfumed skin that Aziraphale's virtue had not taken the form of ascetic self denial. Quite unlike the other angels he had occasionally run into, and avoided. None of the other angels, however, would have let a wounded demon curl around them and worried about their well-being instead of taking the chance to smite them back to Hell. The angel of the Eastern Gate was, as always, a fascinating oddity.

The house was damnably warm, heated by burning palm fronds. Aziraphale sat down, and Crowley reluctantly unwound himself from him, slithering to curl up on his lap. He could feel strength returning to him.

“What do snakes eat, I wonder?” Aziraphale said. “Would you like some eggs, or milk?” he hazarded.

“Ssss all right,” Crawly said and unfolded into a human shape, his legs tumbling onto the floor, head still resting on Aziraphale’s lap. “I prefer beer, anyway.” He felt dizzy and confused, and the sight of his long auburn curls glowing against Aziraphale’s tunic was oddly the most fascinating thing in the world. He shifted, trying to get comfortable with what felt like four too many limbs, and draped his arms further over the angel’s lap. They seemed most comfortable with one loosely wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “I suppose I ought to get you some clothes."

Crawly rolled and looked up at him. The angel looked uncomfortable, and his skin was suffused with pink. “All right, if you think it really matters,” Crawly said, with some confusion, and produced a black tunic, stylishly decorated with red tassels, from the ether. “Better?"

“Sorry. I expect I’ve rather got used to human sensibilities. Not really used to having a naked man on my lap.” Aziraphale seemed relieved. He patted Crawly lightly. “I don’t know much about wrapping wounds, but I can ask one of the servants."

“You have servants?” Crawly smiled, contemplating it, and also contemplating Aziraphale’s remark about naked men, and the blush. “Human servants? I mean, I do, but I should have thought an angel—"

“They’re useful for cover, dear boy,” Aziraphale said defensively.

“Sure.” Crawly stretched a little. “I’ll be all right now, I think. Healing up nicely. But some food and beer would be welcome."

“Of course.” The angel brightened. “Here, lie by the fire, I’ll get us sorted out."

Crawly reluctantly unwound himself from Aziraphale’s lap, wondering at his own reluctance. He was a sodding demon, snuggling up to an angel should have set him on fire or something, not felt positively cosy. Maybe he really did need to get closer to the fire.

“I hate the cold,” he whined.

“Well, that’s fortunate,” Aziraphale said brightly. Crawly raised a questioning eyebrow at him. “Otherwise I suppose Hell would be quite uncomfortable,” he clarified. “All the hellfire and lava and things like that."

Crawly stared. “No one,” he said slowly, “has ever put it quite that way to me."

“Was it tactless?” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I don’t have much experience making small talk to a demon. Only to you, really."

“No, that’s fine.” Crawly sprawled by the fire, as Aziraphale busied himself with jugs and goblets. “I was a seraph anyway. Actually burned less in Hell."

“Well, that would have been some comfort. I hope you enjoy this, it’s spiced in quite a fascinating way.” Aziraphale put a goblet of thick sweet beer down by him. “I don’t have much contact with the higher choirs, but you being a seraph makes sense. Being a serpent and all. I’m afraid you outrank me by quite a bit."

“I don’t think that counts now I’m not an angel, really,” said Crawly, who had rarely been so bewitched in his entire existence. This angel was chattering about Falling as if it was a mild inconvenience, not a horror and tragedy. He had never met a being who saw it that way—except possibly himself. Aziraphale was being _polite_ about it.

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale said awkwardly, and returned to his seat. Crawly rolled a bit so he was seated by Aziraphale’s feet, leaning his head against his knee as he drank. He had an uncontrollable instinct to stay in touch. Maybe the angel’s presence really was healing him. He could feel his wounds closing, wellbeing and energy returning. That, or it was really good beer. “So, how did you end up in the desert?"

“Temptation gone wrong,” Crawly said shortly. He gulped down some beer. “Trying to instigate a bit of disloyalty and rebellion, and they took offence. Didn’t want to undo all my good work by sending them away still uncorrupted, so thought I’d make off as a snake. Wasn’t as fast on the getaway as I hoped."

“Oh dear. I’m sorry. I mean, not sorry that you failed in your evil schemes, of course,” Aziraphale corrected himself. “Sorry you got hurt. I suppose you’ve got your work cut out for you right now. “Everyone’s been behaving quite well since… since the Flood."

“The rainbow’s pretty,” Crawly said, trying to be vaguely comforting. He didn’t like the angel looking sad, which was a confusing thought, because he was pretty sure he was supposed to want the Other Side to suffer.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. Crawly looked up, and the angel’s pretty blue eyes, their colour more intense for the black paint surrounding them, were swimming with tears. “Well. They’re doing quite nicely here, anyway. King Nimrod has got it into his head to build a tower all the way up to Heaven, to keep everyone together. It won’t work of course, but I thought it was quite a touching idea. I wonder what put it into his head?"

“Nrrghk,” said Crawly, guiltily. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice. He put down his empty goblet. “So, what are you doing here?"

“A bit of good here and there. Working as a scribe—human writing is the most fascinating thing. Gives me lots of chances to influence things for the better. And the food is just wonderful. The things they can do with flavoured oils...” His voice drifted off into ecstasy. “Well. You must stay for dinner."

“You’re very kind. However will I repay you?” Crawly twisted, thinking of the blush, and the silken angel skin, and these quite useful human bodies. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and looked up at him, trying to make it clear that he had certain ideas.

Aziraphale reached down, took his arms, and removed them. “None of that, please, or you’ll have to leave.” he said, pale eyelashes fluttering with distress. “I am, after all, an angel, and you are most certainly not. I mean, forgive me for saying so. Um."

“Sorry,” Crawly said, more disappointed than he wanted to admit. “Can’t blame me for trying. Tempting is my nature."

“Of course, dear fellow. Can’t condemn you for your nature. But it would be most inappropriate.” Aziraphale was very red indeed. “Let’s not speak of it again. Now, I have a menu to plan for you."

Crawly got up and moved to his own chair, with considerable reluctance. But he was suddenly very, very afraid that if he pushed, this strange, gentle angel who seemed incapable of following angelic rules wouldn’t ever talk to him. Crawly felt he would do absolutely anything to stop that happening. The Earth, intriguing as it already was, somehow felt less lonely and even more interesting.

That had been his first try at tempting Aziraphale. Not a huge success. But the demon who was to become Anthony J. Crowley was an optimist at heart, and never quite gave up on anything. It had always been his downfall, including quite literally.


	2. Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dates then and now, or now and then.

###  London, Present Day

Crowley was quite pleased with his choice of bar. It was one of his favourite hang outs. It served over three hundred purely organic and biodynamic wines of indifferent quality and absurdly high price. They tended to come from little boutique vineyards of high pretension and low yield, one of his favourite inventions to help encourage in humans a sense of pride and vainglory while spending money indulging in vice. Was he supposed to care about that kind of point scoring any more? Still, it was a bad job executed with style, and as he glanced at the price list on his phone, he felt a little warm glow of craftsmanship.

The wine bar also had a selection of tiny raw vegan cakes to ply Aziraphale with, in case the angel was still a little acidic from the night before. Crowley suspected the judicious application of sugar might be helpful. Date “no sugar” sugar, at that, because old things cycled back into favour, and humans were ever self delusional. Aziraphale had adored dates, at least of the edible kind, for thousands of years.

All of this was rationalisation. The real reason he had chosen the bar was that he associated it with evil deeds, and therefore being a not-Aziraphale place, and Crowley no longer wanted not-Aziraphale places in the new world. He was planning on systematically eliminating them all by dragging the angel to all of them, and it was easier to start with the ones he’d find least shocking.

Six o’clock. Two hours to go. He wished Aziraphale believed in mobile phones so he could text him to make sure their date was still on despite the quarrel. No, that would be humiliating.

Crowley switched on the TV, but couldn’t convince himself he was watching it. No strange events, no casters or actors suddenly talking to him. Boring. Had he really saved—or helped to save—the world just to be left at loose ends and _bored_? He had always specialised in sloth as his particular vice. He didn’t usually need to concentrate on relaxing.

Why the hand, and then the swift rejection of the kiss? What had he missed? When had the rules of the game changed?

Crowley switched the TV off and set music blasting on his sleek sound system. Carl Orff. That seemed to suit his mood. He flung himself on a throne, drink in hand, and let the _Carmina Burana_ swell up and over him, the choir raging against Fate.

> Fate is against me in health and virtue,  
>  driven on and weighted down,  
>  always enslaved.

Crowley toyed with the chains around his neck then caught himself. Oh, now he was being melodramatic. Probably even a Freddie Mercury solo album would have been less self indulgent than _O Fortuna_. He would die of shame if the angel saw him posing brooding in a throne to a soundtrack of swelling choirs. The mixture of affectionate amusement and pity would completely discorporate him.

He checked his beloved watch, which had survived a flaming car quite as well as it was supposed to survive deep sea diving. Seven o’clock. Good enough. He left the flat.

Aziraphale was dressed, smiling amiably and smelling of tasteful chypre cologne over his general scent of sunshine and clean air and incense. He didn’t mention that Crowley was almost an hour early, and didn't pretend to be immersed in his books and to have forgotten all about their plans, so Crowley was clearly not being punished _too_ badly for his lack of discretion.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale's clothes and forbore to comment. Anyway, in this kind of a bar, ill defined vintage eccentricity would fit right in, as long as it also looked expensive.

He pulled the Bentley into a No Parking space on principle, and willed a space in the traffic to appear to cross the road to the bar. He stepped forward onto the road and nearly tripped at a sudden pressure just above his back waistband.

He wasn’t wrong. There was a hand resting on the small of his back, guiding him across the road. Aziraphale was close next to him, very close, because his left arm wasn’t between them but behind Crowley, and the angel’s hand was on his back, meaning the angel’s arm was practically around his waist. Crowley could feel the mild heat of Aziraphale’s side pressed against his own arm and he had to focus quite hard on the mechanics of human legs, because his legs seemed on the edge of reverting to slithering.

When they reached the footpath Aziraphale’s arm dropped, he fell behind, and Crowley stepped ahead through the door.

What the existence were the rules supposed to be now?

The bar was all blonde wood lined with bottles numbered on chalk boards. The clientele were perfect in Crowley’s general way of things. They were insecure and nervy, jostling on a knife's edge professionally, and it was oh so easy to give them little pushes while the natural wines were interfering with their balance. The resulting injustices and dishonesties would spread out and darken the spiritual water like a spoon of Yunnan dropped in a teapot of freshly boiled water.

But not tonight. Crowley had an angel practically on his arm, and the strange sense that the small of his back was still deliciously warm.

He glared at a young professional couple on a small table until they grabbed their glasses and moved to the long bar, and pulled out Aziraphale’s stool with a flourish, feeling giddy and chivalrous all of a sudden.

“You didn’t have to hiss at them, dear,” Aziraphale said mildly, taking the seat anyway.

Crowley wasn’t aware he had hissed. He might have, or Aziraphale might be intentionally keeping him off balance. It was too much mental effort to work out which, especially as his brain cells seemed to have stopped functioning properly, and what was left of them was somewhat distracted. Why the comfortable, possessive hand on his back after the tiff last night? Was it possessive, or was he desperately imagining it?

“I’ll go order,” he said. Wine might help.

###  Kukkutarma, Indus Valley, 1932 BCE

The marketplace was rich with scents and bright colours, and almost too much opportunity. Crawly watched with satisfaction as two merchants argued over whether one of the others had cheated. He noted a dancing girl taking opportunity of the fuss to slip a slender hand over a very costly double string of carnelian beads and slip away through the crowds. Nice one. The merchant turned back to his stall, already angry, and noticed the missing beads. His forehead set in a scowl, and Crawly could almost feel the wrath and resentment building up in the man's heart.

It was always best if you could start off a chain reaction, he was beginning to realise. There were so _many_ humans now. They’d been repopulating like no one’s business, especially since they had been scattered from Shinar. There had to be five thousand or so in this city now, unimaginable as it seemed. And only a few hundred demons active on the surface. The humans seemed to be winning by sheer weight of numbers. Couldn’t spend months whispering in a woman’s ear about apples these days.

“Oh, that looks perfectly ripe.” A sunny voice, as familiar to him as his own, although only heard a few times. How had he memorised the cadences so perfectly? “And some dates, please."

Only a few steps away, he could see a halo of pale hair, a shell bracelet shining against a rounded forearm, beaded and embroidered white and gold robes falling over the other shoulder, bare solid calves. Lustrous as a pearl among all the humans, bright and obvious, rather than sliding among them like a reptile. He closed the gap.

“What’s that orange yellow thing you’re holding?” Crawly asked, tapping on the bare shoulder.

“Crawly!” Happiness again, in the blue eyes. He had been forgiven for the Tower of Babel, he supposed, even if Aziraphale had ever connected it with him. He had been sure to take off before everything turned to chaos. “It’s a mango. Have you ever tried one?” He held it up invitingly.

“No.” He tested the air tentatively. It tasted sweet and sunny and possibly angelic. “Can’t say that I have."

Aziraphale beamed, like a mother about to give a favourite son a treat. “Then you must accompany me home and try it."

“Thought you’d never ask."

They strolled side by side to, Crawly couldn’t help noticing, what were rather palatial quarters once again. “Still working as a scribe?"

“Well, of course. Writing is the most wonderful thing, my dear fellow. You put the words on a tablet, or a signboard, or even an ornament, and they are never lost. Kept forever, for anyone to enjoy and learn from.” He gave a deep sigh of pleasure. “Humans really are clever."

“I never learned to read or write the stuff. Thought they’d get over the fashion.” They passed into a living courtroom, cool with thick green leaves and flowers. Crawly stared suspiciously at a small monkey perched in one of the trees. It seemed to be making a face at him.

“Then you must allow me to teach you."

Crawly glanced sideways at him. Aziraphale’s face was lit from within with enthusiasm, and it didn’t seem to occur to him that he had just offered a demon a form of communication that could stay in existence forever, in which he could write absolutely anything he liked. Crawly grinned.

“I may just let you do that.” He folded himself up on a cushion.

Aziraphale smiled at him as if Crawly had just conferred an enormous favour on him. “Now, let’s try this."

He produced a small copper knife, and scored the skin of the big orange fruit, turning it gently. Juice flowed out, and covered his plump fingers, but he ignored it, intent on producing the fruit. He pulled off the skin, and cut a slice, holding it out to Crawly. “Here. Taste it."

Crawly gave the mango a suspicious glare. He shouldn’t really take food directly from an angel’s hands, he supposed. Of course, he had let him pour him beer, and share a meal brought by servants, but what if _this_ fruit was blessed or something?

He looked into the clear, expectant eyes of Aziraphale, and bit into the fruit.

It really did taste like it looked. Sweet and golden, like edible sunshine. He licked a drop of juice from his lip.

“I don’t need to hand feed you, do you?” Surely he was imagining the unsteadiness in Aziraphale’s voice. “Take the whole slice, dear fellow."

Crawly obediently took the entire slice into his mouth, letting his lips touch the angel’s fingers, his forked tongue briefly flickering out to gather some juice from the fingers.

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale turned bright right. “I forget that you are, well.” Crawly expected him to say a _demon_ , but instead he said, “A serpent. You really should learn to use your hands more. You’d fit in better with the humans."

“I’m pretty good with my hands, but I’m better with my tongue,” Crawly hazarded, to see how the angel would react.

“I’m sure you are, dear,” said Aziraphale, and Crawly felt it was an innuendo completely wasted. The angel sliced the mango further, and offered some dates, and they sat and munched for a while in companionable silence, until the monkey scampered out of the tree and snatched a date, running up Aziraphale’s arm.

Crawly found that unconscionably annoying. No creature, he decided, had the right to coil around this particular angel’s arm but him. He flicked a date pit at the monkey, and it sprang onto a trunk and back up a tree.

“Really,” the angel said reproachfully, and Crawly grinned at him, feeling much happier. There was something about being reproached like that which made him feel like he had been embraced. He picked up and bit into a large slice of mango, and the juice ran down his face and, annoyingly, onto his dress.

“Bless."

“Probably not a safe course of action for a demon,” the angel said vaguely. “You have made rather a mess of yourself. Would you like to bathe? I have a heated bath. Humans really do come up with the most astoundingly nice things."

“We don’t need to bathe, you know.” Crawly said. “We can just make it disappear."

“Perhaps, but baths _are_ awfully nice. I should think you’d enjoy the heat."

“It’s an idea.” He looked directly at Aziraphale, who was meticulously wiping his own face with a cloth. “Want to join me?"

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea."

“You never bathe with the humans?"

“Well, of course. In the _public_ baths. Not alone together."

Crawly grinned at him. “Why? Don’t trust yourself around me?” He leaned closer in, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand again. Aziraphale put it behind his back.

“It’s not me I don’t trust,” the angel said firmly. “The bath is on the first floor, ask Kalidasa to prepare you."

“All right.” Crawly stood and stretched. “But you’re not getting rid of me that easily. You’ve promised to teach me to write."

“I’ll get the guest quarters set up,” Aziraphale said, looking pleased. That, again. Pleasure. As if there was nothing strange at all in the thought of an angel giving a fallen angel lessons in human skills.

Crawly was sure it would be an interesting few weeks. Months, if he could spin it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Format is probably going to be a full chapter in the post-nonApocalypse continuity alternated by a chapter in historical times from now on, but I wanted to set the pattern up early.


	3. Wine #237

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some wine is drunk, some roads are crossed.

Crowley sauntered to the bar. The bartender grinned at him, and lifted an eyebrow.

“We’re up to 158, aren’t we, Anthony?"

“Nah. Got a guest. Think he’d like number 237."

The bartender looked over with interest. “Wouldn’t have picked him. Thought you were the kind to chase younger tail, pretending to relive your lost and wasted youth."

“My youth is long lost, Mark.” Crowley was beginning to feel irritated. “Longer ago and more wasted than you could possibly imagine. And not in any way recoverable."

“You’re not as long in the tooth as all that. Pretty well preserved.” The bartender poured two glasses of #237. “Still, I wouldn’t have imagined you with the fluffy professorial type. I suppose he’s very well off,” he added cynically.

“Not as well off as me,” Crowley said curtly. Part of him was enjoying this. He knew perfectly well what humans assumed when he said _angel_. And there was a tiny thrill each time they made the assumption, as if it was a confirmation that they were eternally paired in some way, even if Adversaries.

“Settling down, then? Comes to us all. Well, I’d look lively, if you care to protect your territory. Can’t bring in anything that rich looking and leave it unattended in a hive of villainy like this.” Mark jerked his head meaningfully.

Crowley followed the movement, swore, and picked up the glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other. “Send my friend some of those sweet things."

An extremely good looking young man with tattooed on eyeliner was having his hand patted soothingly by Aziraphale, and looked up guiltily as Crowley approached. Crowley considered momentarily changing forms, possibly to the one with all the maggots, but settled for, “That seat’s taken. Get out."

The young man took in his expression and hastily obeyed. Crowley set the glasses down and swung onto his stool.

“That,” said Aziraphale, “was discourteous, even for you."

“I’m discourteous? You were supposed to be drinking with me. But if you’d prefer picking up random humans, I suppose your shop is making a mint these days, so don’t let me get in your way.” He splashed the drink into his mouth without tasting it. He knew he was deliberately taking things in the worst possible way, but the _even you_ had stung. The young man had been truly obscenely good looking, in a very human way. Almond green eyes, not bulging and yellow.

Aziraphale took a prim sip, and let the silence settle long enough that Crowley began to feel stupid and embarrassed for over reacting. He was sure he used to be better at keeping his cool than that.

“Look, angel—"

“Whatever that young man does or not do for a living, which is none of our business, he was in a lot of distress. And it is, as you are quite aware, part of my job to help humans through their problems and find a solution that doesn’t damage their souls."

“You just can’t help yourself, can you? You don’t have a job any more! No one is keeping score, not for us.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, and Crowley would have bit his too, except that he had trouble keeping control of his fangs when he was upset. The pale blue eyes were very round, and hurt, and everything had been feeling just wonderful only a few minutes ago.

“Perhaps not,” Aziraphale said, after a while. “But my nature has not changed, nor have my powers. If you think I want to help myself from aiding and comforting others, then you’re mistaken."

“I’m not going on with my job,” Crowley said savagely. “Catch me doing the Devil's work for no pay."

Aziraphale looked not only wounded, now, but sorrowful. “Are you sure _you_ can help yourself? Your fundamental nature, dear boy."

Crowley’s hand was shaking. He tried to sprawl casually, but the bar stool wasn’t designed for elegant languor, and he nearly slid off it. “So that’s it, then? Still an angel and a demon. Adversaries."

“I should have thought that was obvious, my dear,” Aziraphale said, very delicately, as if afraid his words would smash something fragile. “I did think for a moment last night—but just look at us, again."

“Look at us? We’re best friends, having a drink in a very expensive bar, and you are about to have all kinds of delicious food to try. It’s a beautiful world, you said so yourself. And our only Arrangement right now is to _enjoy_ it. Together. Without worrying about sides."

He leaned across the table, chin cradled in his hand, and stared at Aziraphale, willing him to say that of course, they were on _their_ side. _Our side, our side. Just say it_. He stared with all his might as if to hypnotise Aziraphale into it, even through his sunglasses.

Aziraphale turned away. “Oh, how pretty,” he said, thanking the server who had just put a plate of pastel and brown morsels in front of him, and lifting a tiny mango flavoured treat in his elegant fingers. “I'm sure they’re delicious.”

“I do know how to cross a road by myself, you know,” Crowley said, watching Aziraphale chew and swallow.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “Should I apologise?"

“Absolutely not,” Crowley said hastily. "I mean, I get easily distracted, and then where would I be? A flattened snake. I’d have no hope of getting them to assign me a new body right now.” That was a thought, actually. He’d have to keep real care of this body for a bit, until Hell lost interest in his betrayal and decided to make use of him again. He might even have to pay attention to the road. “No, I appreciate the guidance, and you can guide me all you like."

“Then what?” Aziraphale lifted his hands a little helplessly, then noticed a crumb and wiped them meticulously with a napkin.

“Damned if I know.” Crowley drained his glass of rather ordinary wine. Aziraphale was right. Even if he could control the instinct to tempt and provoke the humans, Hell wouldn’t give up on an asset over a betrayal for too long, in any case, especially an asset that had spent thousands and thousands of years playing up its own value. Betrayal was all business as usual, and Crowley’s record was full of commendations. “Damned either way, I suppose."

“I wish—“ Aziraphale’s unfinished wish hung in the air between them, and it hurt like hellfire never had. Then Aziraphale made it worse. “Would it have been a problem if I was?"

“Was what?"

“Courting the young man. You keep talking about the pleasures of the world. And I know that you personally work with humans in this way."

“We’re really going to have this conversation in public?” Crowley felt something shatter inside him. _I thought, after all we’d been through together, you really would have given up on all this tempting nonsense._ “No, actually, we’re really not going to have this conversation in public. Because this bar doesn’t hold enough wine for that."

“True. We’re not going to have this conversation at all.” Aziraphale looked miserable, fidgeting with the napkin. “It was a mistake, my dear. Please don’t bring it up again. You know I truly value our friendship, even if I have been remiss in saying so."

“Aziraphale…” Crowley threw his head back, an aching pain behind his eyes. Lack of alcohol, perhaps. “Yes. Yes, I know you care about me. You are literally an angel and my friend. You know perfectly well that I can’t do without you. I don’t want to talk about you courting anyone. Can we drop the subject? I’m not good at being maudlin sober."

Aziraphale busied himself with the treats, and Crowley went to get more wine. Lots more wine. Why had he picked a place without spirits of the material kind?

When he returned to the table, Aziraphale started talking about some manuscripts he hoped to acquire as if nothing had happened, and Crowley slowly relaxed, and it was okay, it was even fun, because although he had no idea why these particular books were so important he liked the way Aziraphale radiated when he talked about them, colour rising to his face, hands animated. Crowley even almost didn’t have a nervous breakdown when Aziraphale’s shoe and calf rested briefly against his snakeskin possibly shoes. He felt like he was floating in space without any reference point.

Stupid. He had a reference point right across from him. A soft intelligent face, large ears for taking in all the problems of the worlds, kind eyes, solidity that you could grow a universe on. A reference point that had never let him down and never entirely vanished since that first seeking of contact and reassurance in Eden, even when Crowley had thought himself abandoned and unloved in the turmoil of the Last Days. The one being who had consistently put Crowley's safety first even knowing he was Fallen.

He told himself it was all going to be okay, if he trusted whatever was going on under that deceptively innocent exterior. Because Aziraphale might lie and evade and indulge in minor sins, but he was, on the most fundamental level, trustworthy, because he chose with his heart.

Three wines in, the wine bar had lost its appeal, and Crowley suggested going back to his flat to try some special acquisitions he had been saving for Aziraphale. They rose and got their jackets.

On the doorstep, they hesitated, uncomfortable and floundering again.

“I don’t trust myself with the traffic,” Crowley lied. “It might help if you,” he sucked his breath between his teeth and looked anywhere but at Aziraphale, “guided me across the road.” He awkwardly stuck a hand slightly out at an angle behind him, and felt relieved and terrified and blissful all at once at feeling his fingers enfolded and palm pressed. The contented chuckle beside him only made him feel even more confused.

His hands felt lonely on the steering wheel, which was a change because he was usually mostly consumed by passionate communication with the Bentley. When he pulled up in the private garage, he turned to look across at Aziraphale, and saw an open, expectant expression that pretty much destroyed any remaining self possession.

 _Don’t kiss him, don’t kiss him, don’t kiss him,_ he chanted silently to himself. _Don’t mess this up, whatever this is._

“Home sweet home,” he said lightly, and went around to open the door for Aziraphale, as if the angel was incapable of it himself. He was sure, almost sure, he saw a faint pleased smile on Aziraphale’s face. He had no idea what it meant, except that if this was still a game, it seemed Aziraphale was the only one winning points.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) So I still am reading a lot of stuff on Angelology FOR SOME REASON and one of the books has “angel numbers” that apparently mean angels are sending messages to you if you see the numbers a lot. Crowley’s working through the wines in order, and has reached a number which signals the beginning of something new in his life; adventure and excitement; and material prosperity. The wine he chooses to share with Aziraphale, on the other hand, symbolises cooperation and sensitivity to those you associate with; spirituality, conviviality and creativity; and alignment to divine purpose. So. Be careful what you wish for, dear demon, because you never know Who may be paying attention.
> 
> 2) Forgot the “historical” (with a grain of salt) notes last chapter and realise it may have been a bit confusing, but it’s not all that long in celestial timescale after the Tower of Babel from the first chapter, so diverse languages are a New Thing. And for all Zira’s faith in permanency, no one can currently read Harappan/Ancient Indus Valley writing, except presumably him and Crowley.


	4. Dress you up in my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A writing lesson and a shopping trip.

####  Kukkutarma, Indus Valley, 1932 BCE

Writing was pretty easy once you got the basic idea of symbolic language, and after all language was always symbolic, Crawly supposed. There were a lot more of them around since that Babel thing.

As the meticulous hand guided his, the stylus gliding through the clay, Aziraphale’s standing behind him with his body and face so close to Crawly that he could feel his sunshine scented breath on his cheek, he wondered just how long he could reasonably pretend not to have figured it out. Then he wondered why he was convinced he knew what sunshine smelled like. He’d help create the stars, he knew they were big sulphurous stinking things that served as inspiration for Hell, and there was no way their light should smell like Aziraphale just because both light and Aziraphale were on this small planet with him.

“It’s really very clever of the humans,” Crawly said. “No one can pretend to be confused about the rules once they are written down and the clay is baked.” Unless someone substituted another tablet, but he probably shouldn’t say that aloud.

“The Metatron was very impressed. It’s going to make their job a lot easier now they don’t have to create an image of every human at every stage of their life for the records."

“I should imagine. Hell is going to Fall all over again for this stuff,” Crawly said, thinking of the opportunities, and the commendations.

The hand around his dropped away and Aziraphale stepped away, humming under his breath. “Yes. Well. That’s enough for today.” Crawly waited to be told that it was over and he should leave, but instead Aziraphale said, “I want to take you shopping."

“For what? More food I haven’t tried?” Crawly said hopefully, remembering the mango.

“Clothes."

“What for?” Crawly looked down at the rough black silk flatteringly folded around him, glistening with red beads and tiny pearly shells that looked just a little like scales. He was rather proud of the job, and it annoyed him that Aziraphale didn’t seem to appreciate it.

“Because, dear boy, Kalidasa has noticed that you don’t leave your clothes out by the bath. Put together with your, er, other unique features, he’s worried you might be some kind of eldritch creature invading the house to corrupt me."

Perceptive lad, thought Crawly. “Oh. Well, I can make sure he doesn’t notice. My own servants never notice anything, if they know what’s good for them."

“I really cannot have you interfering with my humans’ minds,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Come on. Let’s choose you some real human clothes. It will be fun."

“I hope you don’t expect me to have anything to barter for them, unless you don’t mind it vanishing when I lose attention.” He couldn’t recall anyone in Heaven worrying about if things were fun or not, and Hell had somewhat interesting ideas of fun, especially when you started exploring the lower Pits. Not that he ever had after the first time.

Aziraphale sighed. “Word to the wicked, it would really help you to blend in if you took human customs more seriously.” He went to a shelf and took down a pot full of delicate carved beads in precious materials.

“You want me to get a job?” Crawly smirked at the thought, as they climbed down into the city level. “Like a scribe, for example? Just think of all the things I could write, and they would never know if what I wrote matched what they said. Until the consequences."

“Don’t make me regret teaching you, my dear,” said Aziraphale, which made Crawly wonder, again, why the angel had decided to teach him in the first place. It had hardly been necessary. Even if Crawly had really wanted to learn, he could have learned from humans.

“Look, this writing thing could work out for both of us,” he said, careful to make amends. The angel was weaving through the crowd, excusing himself politely when he needed a way through, as if it didn’t occur to him to be an inconvenience to humans. It created a weird swirl of unaccustomed feelings in his stomach. Well, irritation wasn’t really an unaccustomed feeling, it was part of his background emotion at most times. It was the unfamiliar thing mixing with it, which was unsettling and effervescing all at once.

He put a hand on Aziraphale’s bare shoulder to guide him, and mentally arranged that the humans parted to clear their path. The angel’s skin really was softer than silk. “Think about it. I mean, it’s a pain to have to report in all the time. We could just send in a few tablets, and only pop Down—I mean Up—for the big stuff."

“Well, it’s nice to talk to another celestial being every now and then.” He couldn’t see Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, look at this, isn’t it lovely?"

They stopped by a stall selling fine Mesopotamian woollen textiles, brightly dyed red with madder and yellow with turmeric. It reminded Crawly of Babylon two centuries ago. Two centuries… Had it really been two centuries since he had spent time with this angel? Not that two hundred years was long at all. In the beginning, before he came to this world, a century had passed like a short and very boring daydream. In this world, crowded with incident and interest, it occurred to him that there were a lot of experiences that only the two of them had the chance of sharing. Humans lived and died, other angels and demons came and went, and only the two of them seemed inclined to stick around.

Crawley took in Aziraphale’s face, bright with pleasure as he selected textiles as a present for a demon, and wondered if he was right about what lay behind the ready smile.

He’d run into a few angels in his two thousand years on Earth. Some were old friends, and he steered clear of them, not wanting the painful arguments and possibility of being sliced into pieces with fiery swords. Most were focused on a particular task, message or smiting, and then went back to Heaven. The Watchers had been the last ones to show much personal interest in humans in general, and that had all literally gone to Hell with that nasty Nephelim business. Even the Principalities and guardian angels, special shepherds of humanity, didn’t wander around marketplaces, adopt pet monkeys or take up jobs as scribes. They tended to stay focused on guiding a particular king or prophet through a particular crisis, and then thankfully shoot back to Heaven.

Oh, shit. Was that what Aziraphale was supposed to be doing in Shinar, preventing Nimrod doing the whole giant ziggurat to Heaven thing? Crawly hoped he hasn’t dumped the angel in too much trouble.

And with that undemonly thought Crawly recognised the uncomfortable feeling. _Protectiveness._ He was feeling protective of an angel. Oh, Satan, he hoped that never got back to Dagon. He’d be right back in Tartaróō with the Watchers before he could hiss.

Right. No more guiding the angel through marketplaces with a loving hand, or sitting writing together, or sharing fruit. He’d take leave of Asia completely and go somewhere else, Australia seemed nice and warm, and focus on causing trouble with the humans. Hanging around feeling all protective just because an angel seemed a bit lonely was a suicidal thing to do.

“And this.” Aziraphale beamed like a rosy dawn, and placed something on Crawly’s head.

Crawly glowered defensively. “What, a halo?” He pulled it off his head and stared at it. A thin silver fillet, wrought to resemble a snake, with tiny yellow agate eyes.

“Tactless? Or too ostentatious?” Aziraphale seemed a little anxious at his silence. “It’s just that, well. You made a very handsome snake, I thought."

“No such thing as too ostentatious,” said Crawly, replacing it, and hissing his words just a little. He didn’t thank Aziraphale, but received a relieved smile anyway, in a way that did things to his balance. Oh, _heaven._ “Come on, angel. I need a drink." Alcohol was also, he reflected, a clever human invention, but it could stand to be a lot stronger than it was. They found a place to sit, where men were drinking sweet surāh out of terracotta cups.

“Scrumptious,” sighed Aziraphale, sipping it down. “Oh, do you know that young lady?"

A dancing girl, naked except for strings of carnelian beads wrapped around one arm, was stamping and swaying to the music while the drinkers watched. Crawly lazily grinned at her, and she winked back, almost as if she instinctively recognised a sympathiser with deviltry.

“Not personally,” Crawly said. “I just recognised her jewellery."

“I see.” Aziraphale’s frown wrinkled in a perturbed kind of way. He turned back to follow the girl’s movements, and Crawly had the horrible conviction that the angel was going to approach her and persuade her to confess her sins. Utter waste of temptation.

“She’s pretty, but don’t consider courting the humans,” he warned, deliberately unfair. “Remember the Nephelim."

Aziraphale immediately stiffened. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was not considering anything of the kind. Surely that’s more in your line?"

Crawly shrugged noncommittally. “Don’t expect me to give away tricks of the trade. Then what? Is it the naked dancing?” It was so easy to make this angel blush. So easy that he added, “I could dance naked for you, if you wanted."

He expected more blushes and flustered looks, but instead Aziraphale looked levelly at him, and said, “I don’t think you’d pass as a dancer."

“You wound me. Is it this form? I could try something more lady-like, if you prefer. Anything you like.” He let his voice linger seductively.

“Not at all. It’s that I’ve seen you attempt a natural human walk,” Aziraphale said crisply.

“Now that,” said Crawly, “was not a very angelic remark.” They held each others’ gaze for a moment, then Aziraphale broke first, tittering, and Crawly let his own laughter ring out.

“Come on home,” he said. “Get me drunk enough, and I’ll repay your hospitality by dancing for you."

“I don’t see what I’ve done to deserve such a terrible threat,” Aziraphale protested, letting himself be helped up and guided back to his house. Crowley kept a hand on the angel’s shoulder, and refused to question himself about why.

Much later, as they half lay out in the courtyard and watched the far away exploding horrors of stars, Aziraphale said, “Were you teasing when you said you’d take a female form and dance naked for me?"

“Of course I was.” Crawly drained his goblet of surāh. “But I’ll still do it if you want. I’ve never backed away from a bluff."

“No, I wouldn’t bother.” Aziraphale stared up at the stars, goblet dangling from his fingers. “I quite like your current form."

It was, Crawly decided then and there, his own favourite form. He fingered the fillet holding his curls in place, and looked for nebulas he’d made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The fallen angels are held in a special section of Hell called Tartaróō in _The Book of Enoch._  
>  2) Surāh was possibly the first alcohol, made from a variety of sugary or starchy substances, and was also probably not nearly strong enough for Crowley.
> 
> 3) Dancing girl inspired by the Harappan figurine called, well, Dancing Girl. She looks so mischievous in her jewellery and nothing else.


	5. All on Earth I could wish for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can only Fall so far before you start to Rise.

####  Present Day

“That’s better,” Aziraphale said appreciatively, inhaling the fragrance of his port. “Much, much better. I don’t want to question your taste, dear boy, but the wine in that place was hardly deserving of its price tag.”

Crowley carefully replaced the decanter on the table instead of in its jarrah case, ready to refill the glasses. He’d been saving this particular Seppeltsfield for—well. To spoil Aziraphale with, obviously. But he had a half-acknowledged special celebration in mind, and the event hadn’t happened. He wasn’t sure why he had pulled the port out tonight, except that he wanted the bottle to be as beautiful for Aziraphale as the drink. He wanted everything beautiful, to make up for the quarrel in the wine bar.

“Well, organic small vineyard wine is especially designed to be expensive and difficult to grow and produce, and difficult to make a profit on, while not being, exactly, very good at all. Lots of dead hopes and dreams with every vineyard."

“And I’m sure that amuses you,” Aziraphale said, disapproving. ”Your doing?"

“Yeah. But I told you, I’m not doing that kind of thing anymore."

“You still took me there?” That expression. Curious and… seeking? Trying to dig under his expression, see what hid there. Crowley felt vulnerable, and almost wanted to put his glasses back on, but that would seem weird once he’d doffed them.

He shrugged. “Thought you might like to see where I kicked around when we're not together. Sorry.” He tested the port with his tongue, then tasted it. Rich and syrupy. Perfect for the angel, if he did say so himself.

“That was a kind thought,” Aziraphale said in an odd tone. He stood up, glass in hand, and wandered around, looking for all the world like a cream cat sniffing and padding around a new home.

“What’re you looking for? You’ve seen it all before."

“I had other things on my mind last time than home decoration,” Aziraphale said vaguely. “Concrete, my dear boy? Why is it all so cold and dark? You detest the cold and dark. You can certainly afford light and heating.” He stared at the _Mona Lisa_ sketch as if he could sense the miraculously restored tartan thermos hidden behind it. Perhaps he could. Or perhaps he was wondering how long Crowley had gone by “Anthony” before that damned spy gave it away.

“Fashion, I guess,” Crowley said, feeling ridiculous.

Aziraphale hummed a little, and the light became amber, the temperature creeping up. “Isn’t that more comfortable?"

“Yeah. Thanks.” He felt even more ridiculous. It was much nicer now, he had to admit.

His feeling of pained, exposed ridiculousness increased as Aziraphale drifted to the sculpture, and stood before it, rolling his glass in his hands, the ruby liquid glinting in the new light. When he could bear the silence no longer, he said, “It symbolises the eternal conflict between Heaven and Hell."

“Really? Who’s winning, dear?” Definitely something arch in his tone.

“Heaven,” Crowley said bitterly. “Now stop prowling about and come sit down."

“Let me put some music on first,” said Aziraphale, which instantly sent Crowley into internal panic. Was he putting music on to avoid talking? But then why come back here in the first place? And—oh, Satan, the almost completely black and expensively simple stereo was showing the last track played in bright blue letters, and the corner of Aziraphale's mouth was quirking.

“Put on anything you like,” Crowley said hastily.

“Well, I must put on something that suits your taste. What about _The Ride of the Valkyries_? Or is that too peaceful for you?"

“Shut up."

“How do I work it, anyway? It doesn’t seem to have any controls."

“I lost the remote. Just _think_ at it."

“All right.” The music swelled out, much more quietly than Crowley usually had it play. Not Wagner after all, and no tone poems. Puccini. The wistful notes of _Che Gelida Manina_ did not so much fill the room as subtly permeate it. It made Crowley think of tea again, but a delicate white tea, not Yunnan. Aziraphale made no move to sit down, staring at the stereo as if it had some answers. “I’m not completely au fait with modern technology, but shouldn’t there be speakers?"

“Should there?” Crowley asked guiltily. “Seems to work well enough."

Aziraphale continued to keep his attention on the stereo. “You know, your hands always do seem cold."

“Comes with the serpent thing, I suppose. Yours are always warm,” said Crowley and then, as if the lyrics or the port compelled him, “so come warm mine."

He thought it was too much, as Aziraphale’s already exquisitely correct posture stiffened a little. Only a few moments, then the angel turned and came to sit beside him, putting his glass aside and closing two hands over Crowley’s free one, trapping and chafing it.

“So hand holding is allowed,” Crowley muttered. Delicious warmth was spreading up his hand and arm. "Good to know."

“My dearest.” There was pain and tenderness in Aziraphale’s face. “I never wanted to leave you cold."

“Could’ve fooled me,” said Crowley, then caught the words back as the pain on Aziraphale’s face intensified, and the hands loosened on his own. “Sorry, sorry.” He put the glass down and wrapped his other hand on the back of one of Aziraphale’s. “Stop looking at me like that, angel.” His voice shook.

“Like what?” Aziraphale’s voice was a little shaky as well.

“Like I’m something you want and can’t have."

“Hasn’t that always been the case?"

It wasn’t just his voice shaking now. “Don’t give me that. I’ve been yours for the taking for centuries, and I’ve been perfectly obvious about that."

“You’ve been tempting me for centuries. But I don’t think you have ever once offered what I actually want."

Crowley mentally reached for every curse word he could think of, but all that came to mind were either blasphemous or obscene, and either felt impossible in the grip of that pure, suffering blue-green gaze. “ _Aziraphale_ ,” he said helplessly, instead. “Please. Just ask?"

“Of a demon?"

“Yes! Ask me anything. Anything at all.” His words fell over each other.

“I’m still too afraid of losing what I already have. But, I think—I hope—you’re getting there. It’s just that maybe I’m foolish for thinking so, and I’m just hurting us both."

“Fuck.” Crowley couldn’t look at that gaze anymore. It was too angelic, it burned him like holy water. He buried his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder instead, half expecting to be pushed away. The hands remained gripping his, though, and Aziraphale bent his own head slightly, to lean against his. “Are you _trying_ to discorporate me?"

“Never.” Surely, surely he imagined the light kiss dropped on the top of his head, although fire spread down his body from it. “I’ve been a long time admitting it to myself, but I can’t do without you, either.” He laughed a little shakily. “I mean, what will I do next time I get into trouble, without a big bad demon striding in to rescue me?"

“You don’t _have_ to act like a damsel in distress every time things go a bit pear shaped. You’re perfectly capable of fixing things yourself."

“That wouldn’t be very angelic now, would it? Besides, you enjoy feeling all powerful and chivalrous."

“Huh,” said Crowley, wondering how he was still managing to grin when everything hurt so much. He thought of a burning bookstore, and thinking Aziraphale hadn’t been able to save himself after all. He squeezed his cold hands tighter around Aziraphale’s soft, warm ones. “Anyway, you’re kind of irresistible when you go all fluttery and helpless."

Aziraphale hummed slightly, and they sat there for a while. The music was still opera but had changed to Flotow’s _M’appari_ , and Crowley wasn’t sure which of them was choosing the song order. Maybe the stereo was. It had so much magic piped into it that it probably had developed an infernal mind of its own. It had to be infernal, wrapping him with all that desperate longing.

> I was hurt, I was charmed  
>  By that beauty from above.  
>  Love is etched in my heart,  
>  And cannot now be erased.

Bless it. He tried to change the song, but either the stereo or Aziraphale was not cooperating. Even his stereo was a traitor. Only the Bentley stayed ever loyal.

“Why not put it on top of a high mountain or somewhere far off?” Aziraphale said almost inaudibly, as if to himself. He sighed, and settled his chin on Crowley’s head. It kind of hurt, but Crowley didn’t want to complain.

The demon hadn’t tried to talk to God since he had railed at the silence before the Apocalypse. No answer. No answer ever for a fallen angel, but he suspected there was no any answer for any of them these days, not since the early times. It was a long time since he believed the other angels were acting on direct orders, even the Metatron. He’d never dared ask Aziraphale about it, wary of saying the one thing that would push him too far and far away.

> You have left me,  
>  And my heart along with yours has vanished away.  
>  You've taken away my peace,  
>  I will surely die of pain.

For the first time he could remember since long before his Fall, Crowley prayed.

_Please just grant me this one thing, Lord. Just let me be able to be what he needs. Whatever he needs me to become, I’ll become, if you help me. It’s not fun being a temptation anymore. Please. I’ll repent of anything you like._

“I need to go back to the shop,” Aziraphale said. “Plenty of work to do before opening tomorrow.” He hesitated. “Pick me up at six for the concert?"

“Yeah,” Crowley said, unable to muster the energy to even say something snarky about the quality of music to expect.

Aziraphale lifted their joined hands to his mouth and brushed his lips against Crowley’s fingertips. The tiny touch sent electricity jolting down his arm, down his legs, aching even in his feet. Aziraphale released his hands and stood up. Crowley let himself slide to a half lying position on the couch. “Good night, my dear."

“Good night, angel.” Crowley didn’t look up.

He could hear the door of the flat close. Bless, he should have offered to drive Aziraphale home, not send him off in a taxi in danger of running into a dozen souls he had to heal first. Crowley tried to move, and found he couldn’t lift his head. It was heavy, so heavy, and his eyes were aching, yet he felt oddly at peace. And warm.

in the last moments before he felt asleep, he became aware that the skin next to his shoulder blades, right where his wings sprouted, was prickling and beginning to burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This is the port. It’s pretty local to me, and fairly unusual for an Australian wine to cost $10,000 a bottle, but I am sure it is stunning. The bottle certainly is. Anyway, if anyone can afford it, it’s Crowley.  
> https://www.wine.com.au/the-lalique-decanter-by-seppeltsfield
> 
> 3) _Che Gelida Manina_ is from Puccini’s _La Boheme_ and begins with "What a frozen little hand, let me warm it for you.” Not that I suppose Crowley’s hands are particularly little. But I always head-canon that the after falling from heaven, where he was in my head-canon a flaming serpent/seraph, Crowley has a very low body temperature as a snakey demon.
> 
> 4) Quoted lyrics, and the title, are from _M’appari_ , from Felix von Flowstow’s _Martha_. Lyrics by Friedrich Wilhelm Riese and translated by LyricsTranslate. The plot has nothing to do with the sensible sister from the Bible who had her devotion rejected, but it seemed appropriate anyway.


	6. Water in the desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawly comes across an angel in the desert, with an Egyptian princess and a child.

###  Desert of Negev, 1891 BCE

Crawly watched with interest as one bare pink toe carefully traced a line in the sand, which cracked and moved. Water welled up in the fissure.

“That’s a nice trick,” he said appreciatively.

Aziraphale started violently and turned toward him, hands up defensively. To Crawly’s puzzlement, he immediately relaxed on seeing him, the look of guilty fear fading from his face. Interesting. “Oh, Crawly. It’s just you."

“That’s not very flattering after not seeing me for thirty years,” said Crawly.

He was actually counting himself a bit lucky that the greeting was not more awkward. The last time they had parted ways he had given into his own temptation to comfort Aziraphale over orders not to stop the drought so he could save Kukkutarma, and he had got a bit carried away with the physical aspects of the comforting. The angel had politely and firmly told him that he had work to do looking after the dispersed Harappans, and Crawly had taken the hint and given him time to cool down. And himself. He had become quite heated in a different way, and worried about what unforgivably undemonic words would spill out under the effect of a soft warm shoulder under his lips. He was beginning to suspect that the angel was more dangerous to him than he was to the angel. Yet, here he was.

“Twenty-six years.” Aziraphale straightened his robes. Crawly wondered if it had just seemed longer because he had been so bored without the angel. The water was pulsing out from the sand now, clear and, Crawly was sure, sweet. He wasn’t going to risk touching it. Plants were growing up around it already, curling out green and lovely in the desert heat. Crawly backed carefully away as a rivulet came near him. “Oh, sorry, my dear, I didn’t know you’d be around. Inconsiderate of me.” A rocky ledge came up, directing the flow of holy water safely away from the demon. “I thought you were in Egypt."

“Speaking of which, isn’t that one of the Pharaoh’s daughters crying her eyes out under that bush? I’m sure I recognise her."

“Oh!” Aziraphale turned hastily away, as if he’d remembered what he was doing. “Don’t worry, dear lady. This is a friend. Look, I’ve found some water for you and your little boy. Oh, and look at this plant with pretty pink flowers, I do believe the leaves and seeds are edible. Berries and everything. Chin up, everything’s going to be just fine now."

The woman came nervously forward. She would probably have once been good looking, but misery and dehydration had stretched her face into a skull, large dark eyes standing out. Definitely familiar.

“Hi, Hagar. Haven’t seen you since you were a kid. What are you doing out here in the desert all alone?"

Hagar gave him a wild look, then flung her arms around Aziraphale, sobbing. He patted her shoulder a bit desperately. “There, there. Crawly, if you don’t mind—the child?"

Crawly tasted the air for signs of another human, then wandered in the direction of the scent of blood and sweat. A small child was curled up in the almost non existent shade from a spindly bush, semi conscious. Oh, bloody Heaven. There was no way the kid could walk in this condition. There was no help for it, unless he wanted to go back and tell the angel that he had failed in a perfectly simple request. The situation was far too intriguing for that.

“Up you go,” he sighed, and lifted the boy in his arms.

Two sunken eyes fluttered open and fixed on his face from two inches away. “You look weird."

“You don’t know the half of it.” He carried the kid carefully in his arms. The boy was well grown, had probably had a fair amount of food while growing, but he was wasted with suffering now and far too light for his size.

“Are you an incarnation of Apep?"

“That’s surprisingly perceptive of you. I’m wearing human clothes and everything.” Definitely an intriguing situation. He could always wipe the kid’s memory later, if he needed to do something.

The boy didn’t seem afraid. “You forgot to transform your eyes. And you've got a snake on your face. What about that man over there hugging my mother?"

“No, he’s an angel of the Lord.” The boy’s face twisted into a scowl. “Now, now, don’t be like that. He’s only trying to help. You’ll like him."

“Huh,” said the kid, dubiously. “I’m Ishmael."

“Well met, Ishmael. I’m Crawly. Knew your mother when she was your age and lived in the palace. How did the son of a princess end up like this?"

“Angels of the Lord,” the boy said bitterly. He put his head down on Crawly’s shoulder and went back to sleep.

Aziraphale was sitting on a boulder that hadn’t been there before, Hagar leaning on his shoulder, gently squeezing water from a soaked rag between her parched lips. “There you are. See, you’re feeling better already, aren’t you? You and Ishmael will be perfectly fine, I promise.” Colour was flowing back into her cheeks, far more quickly than a few drops of water should achieve. “Oh, Crawly. Um, could you put him down here? Come around this way, I’ll make sure the water won’t touch you."

Crawly carefully laid Ishmael on the boulder, head on Aziraphale’s lap, and retreated far from the holy water to watch developments.

Both mother and child seemed to be having miraculous recoveries. Before long, they were devouring leaves and berries, the beauty was returning to Hagar’s face, and Ishmael seemed to have lost his fear of Aziraphale. It was hard, Crawly reflected, to be afraid of someone so encouraging, so affectionate, so obviously kind, who was feeding him by hand with loving hands. He could remember what that felt like.

Aziraphale’s wings were folded away, but they almost seemed to hang behind him in a shimmer of barely visible light. It could be a mirage. The sun was very bright on the sand.

Crawly found himself a nice hot boulder and drifted back into snake form, watching through unblinking eyes. He noted that the caravan that arrived lost couldn’t explain why they had ended up in that particular spot, and yet they were willing to negotiate with Hagar for water, and impressed by the beauty and set possession of the woman and her son. They barely seemed to notice the plump man with pale gold hair. It was almost, Crawly reflected, as if he had somehow become invisible to them, especially as he trotted away back to the serpent sunning itself.

“They’ll be all right now. Let’s go."

Crawly shifted back into human form, and they walked companionably together. Crawly noted that Aziraphale let him choose the direction.

“Intelligent kid, I thought,” he said eventually.

“Yes. Bit of a mischief maker, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale sent him a sidelong glance under golden lashes.

“All the better as far as I'm concerned."

“His father’s wife was afraid Ishmael would be a bad influence on her son,” Aziraphale said defensively, as if he had anything to defend. “Isaac’s going to be a very important man, and Ishmael was a threat to him."

“I like him even more. You know, it’s hard to be a bad influence if you and your mother have died of thirst and exposure. And it’s not as if you’d have to kill them yourself. It could be up to… God’s will. Ineffability."

Aziraphale sighed, his soft face unhappy. “Please stop circling around me like that. It makes me nervous."

“Sorry,” said Crawly, who hadn’t realised he was doing it. He slowed his pace to match the angel’s sandalled footsteps.

"What are you doing in the middle of the desert? Not that I’m sorry to see you,” Aziraphale hastily added, always courteous.

“Same as you, I suspect,” Crawly said. “I heard—well, Ligur heard. He has a suspicious way of knowing things. Anyway, he said there were two kids, and the first one wasn’t supposed to be born at all, some lady got impatient and used an Egyptian slave as a surrogate. Now the second one is around, the angels were all worried that the older one would get in the way of the prophecy. Dagon said, get over there, make sure the surplus kid survives to make trouble."

“Ah.” Aziraphale fidgeted with his robe. Crawly remembered a missing flaming sword.

“Best not to put it on your report,” Crawly said kindly.

“Oh dear."

“Look, blame me, if you like. The notorious serpent Crawly deceptively posed as an angel and brought them to water. I’ll report the same back. Dagon gives me a big tick, Gabriel doesn’t ask awkward questions. We both do well out of it. And it’s not even untrue, when you think about it. I did carry the kid."

Aziraphale smiled at him so brightly it hurt, as if he hadn’t just suggested lying by omission to Heaven. “That’s very kind."

Crawly hissed warningly. “Just scratching my own back."

“Of course, of course.” They walked together, side by side, as he wondered why this angel never Fell. He radiated goodness, but he seemed completely unable to stick to the implied part of his orders, and even if he didn’t admit to it, he seemed to question policy as much as Crawly used to. There was steely rebellion under that genial exterior.

“Dagon. You report to them?” Aziraphale asked abruptly, disrupting his chain of thought.

“Usually, yes, although if it’s big I go right to the bottom. Why?"

“I was just wondering how they were doing Down There."

“You know Dagon?” Crawly felt a little shocked, and a peculiar little stab of jealousy. Of course he was not the only demon Aziraphale was familiar with, even if he had a tendency to think of him as his own personal angel. Why in three Realms had he event thought so? A third of angels had rebelled, and even if the Principalities were late creations, it only stood to reason that Aziraphale would have lost some Heavenly friends. Some of them were probably even ones that Crawly personally had convinced into Falling. Probably, kind-hearted as he was, he had wept for them. Crawly felt an uncomfortable burning behind his eyes at the thought of causing Aziraphale to cry. Bloody Dagon.

“Well, they were a recording angel. Helped me prepare for working with the humans. Much easier to get along with than the Metatron, to be honest. Less patronising."

Crawly tasted the idea that Dagon was capable of being able easier to get along with than absolutely anyone. What had the Metatron done to this innocent angel? “They seem a lot happier since I introduced writing down there. Calls himself Lord of the Files. Never happier than when buried under a pile of reports to complain about."

“That’s nice. I’m glad to think I did something to make their lot easier,” Aziraphale said. The little stab of jealousy turned into a twisting knife. “Of course, Vretil always did enjoy making records."

“You can’t just use their old name like that!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.” They walked on for a while. The sun was drawing lower, and Crawly supposed he should choose a destination before they got cold.

“You really are the strangest angel I ever met,” he hissed. Aziraphale bristled a little. “Look, you have anywhere in specific to go?"

“Not really. I made sure Sarai had her baby safely, and delivered the convenant. I’m a free agent for a while."

“Come to Egypt with me. You’ll like it there, better than out with small tribes. They are really into this writing thing. Do the most attractive things with ink made from plants. You’ve no idea how much they can fit on papyrus."

Aziraphale looked as longing as if he had been presented with all the riches of world at the thought of papyrus. Then he shook his head. “I’m really not sure I should be promising to accompany a demon anywhere,” he said primly, with a sudden onset of virtue.

“Why not? Look, angel, I’ve been thinking about it for the last few years. They set us up together in Eden, right? Opposites. And it’s got to come in handy having a personal Adversary."

“Adversary.” Aziraphale seemed to be tasting the word, rolling it around his mouth, trying it out. “How could that be handy?"

“Well, right then, for example. Saved you a citation at the very least. Look, we try not to get in each other’s way, and any time something doesn’t come go to plan, well. There’s our clever Adversary."

“No. Definitely not. I can’t agree not to get in a demon’s way. "

“All right. Maybe that’s too much,” Crawly said, regretting bringing it up when Aziraphale was sober. He’d try again later after a few drinks. Maybe in a few years. “But there’s no reason not to be pleasant to each other. You can’t tell me you didn’t miss me."

“Miss a demon?” Aziraphale said, a bit weakly.

“Afraid my gorgeous presence is too tempting?” Crawly leered at him.

“Not at all!” Aziraphale reddened. “I told you last time--"

“Come on. You should try their bread with figs and honey. Absolutely luscious.” He imagined Aziraphale eating it, the expression of pleasure on his face, and shivered. “A lot of them are your kind of people. I mean, not Heavenly. Scribes. So scholarly it hurts."

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to spread some encouragement and blessings around a new city,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully.

“That’s my angel. The rural life isn’t really for you.”Crawly hesitated a moment, and then said, the name hurting to push out, “Botis."

“What?"

“Used to be. Don’t use it. I mean, I’m not sure I’m going to stay Crawly, but—not that."

A long, quiet blue-green gaze that he could feel without turning his head to see. “Thank you for entrusting me with that, my dear."

“No problem.” He stared at his feet, clad in something that shimmered like snakeskin. Aziraphale seemed to understand the significance.

“Egypt, then."

Crawly felt something like joy stinging in his heart. Joy. He had never really felt that even as an angel. He wanted to cling to it, even if it hurt.

“Come along, then, angel."

It was always faster to fly, and there were no humans around. Just the two of them, dark and pale wings outstretched, diving into the oncoming night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) There are so many contradictory Young Earth Creationist timelines available. I chose the one from Bible Timeline: From Creation to the Death of John 100 AD by Sauel Jordan, for the simple reason that I needed to have this happen after the Harappan chapters.
> 
> 2) Hagar apparently told her son about Egyptian deities even after being given to Abram.
> 
> 3) If you're unfamiliar with my other Ineffable Husbands fic, Count Botis is, in demonology, a demon associated with reconciling friend and enemy, and whose first form is a serpent. He's my personal head-canon for seraph!Crowley.
> 
> 4) Apologies if there are more typos than usual. I have a migraine, but I am incapable of leaving this story alone even then. I am eager to get back to the Mayfair flat in the present day...
> 
> 5) I cherish every comment and kudos. Thank you so much for all the support and kindness, and for engaging with this story.


	7. There must be an angel (playing with my heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pot plants and angels

####  London, Present Day

Crowley dreamed of Heaven.

> The Principality Aziraphale was newly minted, glowing but not burning. Botis hadn’t had much to do with the third Triad, and he was interested that they had been given forms similar to the humans. Only two wings—did the humans have wings? Hardly any eyes at all, though. It would be much easier to cover them against the glory of God if there were only two, so he supposed one pair of wings was enough too.

> Principalities were completely different to any other angelic form he’d met, judging by this one. Softer even than feathered wings, but solid, somehow.

> “Yes, I understand your point, your Grace,” Aziraphale said patiently, “but I do think if everyone would just talk to each other it could all be sorted out without all this nasty Rebellion business."

> “Since when has the Almighty answered anyone’s questions?” Crowley asked bitterly.

> “Perhaps Prince Lucifer is asking wrongly,” Aziraphale said. He folded his hands primly. “Not that I would judge him. Still, I find a nice talk always helps."

> “Look, we made the Universe for Her—"

> “Not me, personally."

> “I forgot, you’re still new-born.” Botis turned and twisted in his fire. “Well, some of us did. Great big stars and planets."

> “The stars are very pretty,” Aziraphale said politely. “Well done."

> “Not close up, they’re too hot even for me, and smelly. Anyway, that’s not my point. My point is, we were Her creations and companions, and now what? We have to bow down to two corporeal beings on one insignificant tiny planet?"

> “I’m rather looking forward to guiding them,” Aziraphale said, a little pouty. “They are… interesting."

> Botis directed the gaze of some of his eyes into the clear blue-green ones of the Principality ,and for the first time felt defeated. This child of an angel Questioned, he was sure of it. It was in the slightly worried brow, the careful lacing of his fingers together. But under it all was an unassailable faith and Love like bedrock. Botis felt that, this time, he was better off cutting his losses and going to talk to someone else. Lucifer would understand. It was just a Principality, after all.

> He didn’t leave.

> “Look,” said Aziraphale. “It’s no good. My entire Created purpose is to look after and love the humans, do you really expect me to resent them? Don’t worry your head over it, your Grace. Everything will turn out for the best, just wait and see.” He smiled, and his smile was startlingly beautiful, in a completely different way to all the glory of Heaven. “It’s all going to be quite fun."

It was hard to open his eyes. Such a strange dream. He’d never known Aziraphale in Heaven. Perhaps, if he had, things would have been different. Probably not, though. He’d never loved anyone or anything in Heaven, not even the Almighty, not until a shame-faced admission of disobedience by an unfallen angel, a wing kindly outstretched against the first rain. Would any of that have mattered to him when he was still held in the Almighty’s unbearable burning Grace?

If he was going to dream about Aziraphale, he could think of several hundred more fun situations to imagine him in than Heaven.

His eyes hurt. His shoulders hurt. Serve him right for falling asleep on the couch when he had a perfectly, in fact obscenely, comfortable bed. Perhaps he should have sobered up first. He hadn’t even drunk that much. Maybe his precious Seppeltsfield port had gone bad. It wasn’t like Aziraphale had drunk much of it anyway. He peeled open one eyes and gave it a baleful look.

The atmosphere of the flat was still deliciously warm and golden. He wondered if Aziraphale was maintaining it now, or him. In the light, the thrones looked ridiculous, and he decided it was time to change them to something less showy. He could try clean and light instead of Gothic industrial nightmare. Time to browse some catalogues.

Crowley rolled onto his feet and slouched into the kitchen. Copious amounts of black coffee would help.

Six shots in his mug, he wandered into the atrium, hoping to take out his general unease on the plants. They showed him beautiful, flawless leaves, tiny starlike flowers. They were clearly just trying to annoy him. He snarled at them a bit and misted them like he was spattering them with machine gun bullets, but his heart wasn’t in it without flaws to pick on. Maybe they were benefiting from a bit of residual Aziraphale-ness.

Aziraphale had always had a way with plants. No wonder he had chosen the role of gardener as cover. There was no leafy courtyard in the bookshop, though, and no monkeys. Struck by a thought, Crowley selected a particularly verdant monstera, the scales falling off the long-ripening fruit, the scent delicious. Had Aziraphale ever tasted one? It seemed like a significant gift for a demon to give to an angel, a deadly poisonous plant with fruit that had become wholesome and delectable with the long passage of time. Crowley wasn’t sure where he was going with the metaphor and didn’t want to pursue it in case it fell apart and left him stranded. Hopefully Aziraphale would appreciate it anyway.

Crowley drained his coffee, picked up the monstera pot, glared silently at the other plants as if to suggest he was taking the pot plant to its doom, and headed for the garage.

His beloved watch told him it was currently 11 am in London, but 6 pm in Hong Kong, which meant that he would already be late to pick up Aziraphale, if they happened to be in Hong Kong. That would do as an excuse. In any case, Aziraphale always let him into the shop at any hour. He came in useful for scaring away potential customers by drooping languorously over the stacks and glaring at them as if they were shoplifters, until they went away and gave Aziraphale an excuse to close up.

Crowley carefully nestled the plant into the driving seat and reached for some glasses from the glovebox. He’d give it to Aziraphale, as a kind of peace offering—had they quarrelled? He wasn’t sure—and then take advantage of the very unEnglish sunshine to pester Aziraphale into coming for a drive on the coast before the concert. There was a little seafood restaurant he’d been meaning to introduce Aziraphale to in Whistable that served the most divine oysters.

Divine. That word had popped into his head with no discomfort at all. Perhaps it was because he was thinking of the angel, but then, when did he not, lately?

He pulled the Bentley over at random on the sidewalk, leapt out with the monster in hand, and pushed the door open without checking if it was locked. It didn’t matter either way, it would still open.

“We’re closed!” Aziraphale called from the back room. Crowley ignored that. It was only a reflex every time Aziraphale heard the bell on the door jangle, anyway. His few customers had long ago learned to ignore it as well.

The gramophone was playing, hissing as it turned. Tchaikovsky, an English recording of _None But a Lonely Heart_ from the 1920s, if he was any judge, and he knew Aziraphale's musical tastes well enough to be. Crowley had often wondered why Aziraphale was resistant to updating to a system with more crystalline sound, but somehow the tenor’s voice was textured and even more melancholy for the distortion.

> Heaven's boundless arch I see  
>  Spread out above me.  
>  O what a distance drear to one  
>  Who loves me

“Not closed for me, angel,” he said, pushing the velvet curtain aside. “I brought you something."

Aziraphale looked up from book on his desk, his hands in white gloves, spectacles perched on his nose. That was unfortunate. Aziraphale was much harder to tempt away when he was immersed in a new treasure. Under the spectacles, his bewitchingly round eyes were even rounder than usual, startled.

“Angel? I—oh.” His expression cleared, although there was something wary, almost like fear, behind it. “The seraph Botis, isn’t it? It _has_ been a long time. What brings me this honour?"

Crowley stared blankly at him. “That’s not remotely funny.” He put the plant down on the desk.

“Funny?” Aziraphale blinked at him. “You must excuse me, I didn’t mean to make a joke. Oh, what an attractive plant.” He stripped off the gloves and got up, nervously. “Can I make you some tea? Do you take in corporeal matter?” He moved to the kettle plugged in the corner of the room.

“Hilarious. I actually came to take you out for an early lunch and a chat."

“A—a chat?” Aziraphale nearly knocked over the mug he was reaching for.

“Don’t look so scared,” Crowley said, irritated. “I won’t bring up anything awkward. Nothing more threatening than a bit of hand-holding over lunch."

“Hand-holding?” squeaked Aziraphale.

“Oh, no, don’t play it this way,” Crowley snapped. “Hand-holding is fine, we established that."

There was utter bewilderment in the angel’s face. Then the doorbell jangled again, and the confusion deepened to terror.

“You have to leave, right now,” Aziraphale said suddenly. “No, by the back door. I’ll explain later, I promise. Just—please.” He shifted his wait from foot to foot. “Give me an hour, and I’ll explain everything. Go. Please—trust me."

Crowley was nonplussed and resentful, but faced with that sweet anxious face, he felt he had no alternative. “All right,” he said, and headed for the back door. He opened it, hesitated, and then closed it again, slipping into snake form, the tiniest snake form he had yet assumed, and slid quietly behind a cabinet. He felt guilty, but Aziraphale had clearly not noticed.

“You’re early,” Aziraphale said crisply to whoever had entered the main room.

“Have to keep you on your toes,” replied a pleasant voice.

 _Gabriel._ Well, that made sense. Crowley felt a bit stupid, as he was aware he had probably just foiled Aziraphale’s attempt to protect him and put himself in danger, but that was overwhelmed by a furious, protective, righteous rage. If that bastard laid a hand on Aziraphale...

He was, in fact, laying a hand on Aziraphale. An affectionate boop on the nose that was probably actually a hidden threat. Crowley began to think through his options. It was unlikely Gabriel was actually _carrying_ holy water, and after all he was supposed to be immune to it, but he probably had weapons of some kind under that beautiful cashmere suit. A fight wouldn’t be easy. But he’d be damned over again if he let Gabriel drag Aziraphale back to Heaven.

“Well, your timing was dreadful, dear. You only just missed someone from Headquarters. I think we’re being checked up on."

Gabriel gracefully cast himself into a chair facing Crowley’s hiding place. In a sense of sick, dizzying panic, Crowley saw Gabriel removed mirror lensed glasses from his perfect face to reveal the blue, multi-faceted eyes of a demon.

Crowley slid through an open window into the back alley and transformed back, his lungs aching, his heart hammering so hard that he had mistsin front of his eyes. He reached to his chest to clutch at his chains, but they had vanished. Behind him, snowy white wings spread open.

Through the open window, the tenor’s voice crooned mercilessly on.

> Alone and parted far  
>  From joy and gladness  
>  My senses fail  
>  A burning fire devours me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Lyrics to Tchaikovsky 's _None But the Lonely Heart_ by Lev Mei, based on a Goethe poem, translated by... Wikipedia. If you're interested, the recording I was listening to was by John McCormack and is incredibly beautiful.
> 
> 2) Monstera have experienced a 150% rise in sales in London in the last year. Symbolism side, Crowley at least _tries_ to be fashionable.
> 
> 3) Thanks to those who expressed sympathy, I slept the migraine off, thanks possibly to the magic of sleeping pills.
> 
> 4) I suppose I should say don''t get used to this pace? But I am feeling like a writer again, and it is oh so fun.
> 
> 5) Title from the Eurythmics song.


	8. Games in Egypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boat ride down the Nile and a simple game of strategy.

#### Egypt, 1550 BCE 

The demon Crawly was really enjoying Egypt. He loved the sunshine, the parties, the perfume, the food, the alcohol, the music, the hunting, the constant aura of temptation in the air. He loved the currying of favour, the chasing of status, and constant betrayals among officials and nobles. He loved the jealousy of wives and concubines, the resentment between rich and poor. He even loved the crocodiles.

His second favourite thing was the clothes. He had been around humans long enough to realise that half-nakedness could be more provocative than going entirely nude, and a short, clinging translucent linen skirt that might as well be nothing at all for all it concealed was one of the most powerful weapons in his arsenal of temptation. Top it off with with enough obsidian and precious red glass in snake motifs, and it was highly satisfying to his—well, soul.

His very favourite thing was the custom of nose-kissing as a friendly greeting. Such an innocent thing, rubbing noses. But tilt your head just right, look through your lashes with the right burning intensity, and the person you were greeting couldn’t help but notice that your breath was mingling. Couldn’t help thinking about whether, if they moved their mouths just a little forward, your lips would meet. Crawly was an expert at wordlessly implying that if anything like that would happen, he would deepen the kiss and throw all restraint to the wind, no matter who was watching.

Aziraphale _fluttered_ and pulled away from the greeting hastily, and looked everywhere else but at Crawly, and then if he couldn’t resist it, sidelong back at him, and all the practice at seductive nose rubbing seemed worth it. Crawly let a smile play on his lips and didn’t push it. He was learning patience. All the time in the world.

What Crawly didn’t really like was the boats. Too close to too much cold wetness. But he needed at least one luxury vessel in order to pass as the kind of human he tried to be.

The more their unspoken Arrangement came into play, the more antsy Aziraphale became about clandestine meetings, and it was beginning to strain Crawly’s ingenuity to think of believable ways to run into each other. Entertaining a collector of manuscripts on his boat in order to tempt him into selling a few rare scrolls was as good a reason as any, even if Crawly could do without the audience of musicians and oarsmen.

He didn’t, on reflection, even mind all that much that they had lost the easy open companionship of Kukkutarma. Aziraphale’s caution and the need for multitudes of covert plans and little evasions made Crawly feel like a guilty secret, and Crawly _liked_ guilty secrets. By the nature of them, they tended to be cherished close to the self, draining a little virtue out every heartbeat. Besides, he had confidence that he would regain Aziraphale’s willingness to share a house, when… Well. He didn’t really dare form that thought any more solidly in the fluffy but disconcertingly sharp presence of the angel. Those thoughts were for when he was alone.

He had time. At least four thousand years, give or take.

“You could sell me _some_ ,” he said, letting an aggrieved tone into his voice. “To maintain your cover as a manuscript dealer, at least."

“Hush.” Aziraphale gave an agitated look around, but the slaves were discreetly apart from them. “I have a responsibility to preserve them. They are precious, magical texts—"

Crawly snorted. “That’s rich, coming from you."

“Well, the humans believe they are magical. I don’t trust you to look after them properly. I mean, look at your garden."

“It’s not my fault. I pay my gardeners enough to maintain it."

Aziraphale sighed, taking a seat by the precious inlaid board game of twenty squares. Crawly had spent a great deal on it, remembering nights playing it in Babylon and Kukkatarma. Crawly had never yet convinced the angel to gamble on it, but he would some day. The board was a lovely thing, but the memories of togetherness were what he wanted to provoke.

“Dear boy, if you would like me to come take a look at your plants, just ask."

Crawly looked out at the water, at the lotuses unfurling gentle fronds as they passed, the reeds becoming more verdant, the world responding to the angel’s presence. He imagined his costly and rather sad garden blooming at Aziraphale’s feet. Then wilting again out of spite after he left.

“No, no,” Crawly sighed. “I’m not giving up. There’s a trick to plants, I just have to figure it out.” He took up a handful of pyramid dice, and tossed them, moving an obsidian soul into play.

“So, how have things been on your end?” Aziraphale asked more quietly. “Oh, I get a second move.” Two shining ivory souls moved onto the board.

“Good enough. Downstairs seem happy. Yours?” Over the years in Egypt, they had come to a kind of implicit arrangement over the years that while Crowley was left to party and run amok among the nobles and entertainers, Aziraphale had a free hand with the peasants and scholars. It suited both their styles, and the commendations were stacking up from both sides.

Aziraphale bit his lip in the way that always suggested that his better self was telling him not to say something. Crawly waited patiently for Aziraphale’s more rule-breaking self to win. After all, cheats always had the advantage. It was part of Crawly’s philosophy in life.

He rolled his handful of dice again and moved. What did that space mean again? Either a powerful new rival, or discovering a new good beer, if he was right. Well, there were worse human prophecies. Prophecies were more in Aziraphale’s line, anyway.

Crawly signalled for more beer, taking it as a sign, and waited. The drums beat gently, the sound of harps and flutes drifting across the Nile with them.

“I’ve heard that Gabriel will be appearing here soon, in person.” It was almost inaudible.

Crawly stared pointedly away, watching a crocodile paddle almost imperceptibly though the shallows. He didn’t want to make Aziraphale feel more anxious and clammed up by too obviously paying attention.

“Checking up on you?”

“I don’t think so.” Aziraphale captured one of Crawly’s souls and moved it off the board. “He seems quite happy with me, and there’s no reason he’d know about you. Expect something big, Uriel said. She seemed quite excited about it."

Crawly frowned. Uriel. One of the angels who smited a bit harder and with more pleasure than strictly necessary, a far more common type than Aziraphale. There was no way this could be good news. He rolled again. No move possible.

“I don’t decide these things,” Aziraphale said, his voice gentle and sorrowful, as if he was fearing the same.

Crawly felt an unaccustomed stab of guilt, remembering other cities. But this lot—this lot were not so bad. Merrily tripping to Hell on wine and gold, a lot of his acquaintances, and he didn’t mind helping them along the way. At least Hell was less boring than Heaven, where none of them would fit in anyway. But there was a lot worse going on elsewhere in the world without obvious demonic intervention, and Gabriel hadn’t been sent elsewhere.

“I suppose I should stay and get in the way of his plans,” he said slowly. He took a long gulp of beer. It really was good.

“No, my dear, you certainly should not!” Crowley looked directly at Aziraphale for the first time in a bit, and noted that his companion was pale under his tan. “Gabriel isn’t like me!"

“No one is like you, angel.” It came out far more sincerely than he meant it to, almost tenderly. He blushed and looked away from the angel. “Gabriel is a bastard,” he said, extra snarl in his voice for the embarrassment.

“That’s not true,” Aziraphale said indignantly. “He’s very righteous and kind."

“Righteous, I can see,” said Crawly, remembering tempting him to Fall no avail. It bothered him still, in a way, that he hadn’t found the right way in. If he had found the right trigger—vanity, perhaps? Pride? His own vanity hated the idea that Lucifer had sent the wrong angel to negotiate with Gabriel. “Painfully so. Kind, no. He hasn’t come to the world’s surface before, has he?"

“Not that I know of. It must be something huge to bring him personally.” Aziraphale leaned forward, brow creased earnestly. His hand reached out, just for a moment, as if it was going to take Crawly’s hand, then fell back and scooped up the dice instead. “My dear, you must leave. What about the Yellow River? There’s some interesting developments there.” He took a deep breath. “I could join you, afterwards. Just to compare notes."

“I like _this_ river. I’m not going to slither off with my tail between my legs over a mere archangel,” Crawly said, getting a bit confused with his animals, maybe because of all the crocodiles. “Don’t worry. I won’t give you away.” He sent a black soul home.

“That’s not what I’m worried about! Crawly, you’re not under Her protection anymore. Gabriel is the angel set to preside over serpents!” Aziraphale pressed his lips together in agitation, eyes very round and gleaming like the Nile in their surrounding paint.

“I’m not actually a snake, you know,” Crawly said, touched beyond measure. He remembered protective hands carrying him back from the desert. Saving a demon from his fate.

“Are you so sure are about that? Even in Heaven, you were a burning serpent, weren’t you?"

“And I outranked Gabriel.” He moved a soul to the Afterlife. “Don’t worry about me, angel.” He didn’t even try to stop the tenderness in his voice this time. He couldn’t remember, ever, anyone this concerned for him. Technically in Heaven, he had been loved by every other being, but _personal_ concern, to care so intensely about his safety… That was something else entirely. Something that made him ache in an almost frightening way.

“How am I supposed to help worrying? You don’t sometimes seem to have the sense you were Created with!”

Crawly grinned at him, oddly pleased by the testiness, especially when Aziraphale looked close to frustrated tears. He resisted the temptation to reach across and stroke the side of the innocent, worried face. He didn’t usually resist temptations, but something told him this was the wrong moment for too much contact. For a start, he felt the danger of the Indus Valley, that any touch would be followed by unwisely unguarded words, with the angel having such a perilously melting expression under the surface irritation. If they got back to Beezlebub somehow, well, he didn’t want to think about it.

“Try some figs, Aziraphale. They’re perfectly ripe, and you’ll feel better for something sweet. I made sure we brought them just for you. The most delicious honey cakes, too.” He drained his beer, and gestured to a handmaiden to bring some delicacies.

“See what I mean?” Aziraphale stood up suddenly, drawing his skirt around him, flustered. Gold jewellery gleamed on the perspiration sheened skin of his plush chest. “You can’t distract me with sweetmeats like I was a child!"

“History would seem to say otherwise,” Crawly said without thinking, then winced as the light snapped off in Aziraphale’s expression. “Angel. Angel, I didn’t mean it. Don’t take offence."

“Do what you like,” Aziraphale said, his voice tight. “I warned you, which is more than I should do for—“ He glanced at the servants and lowered his voice, protecting Crawly even when angry. “For a demon and Adversary.” He raised his voice again, and requested to be let off the boat.

Crawly let him go, rolling the dice over and over, idly moving for both sides. All the little souls, captured in Heaven and in Hell. A game they took turns winning, even though Crawly cheated on principle.

Aziraphale was right, he reluctantly admitted. He didn’t want to run into an avenging angel, and frankly if there was going to be a repeat of Sodom, he didn’t particularly want to watch it. There was a whole world out there to explore and experience. It was ridiculous and childish to want to stay in Egypt just because Aziraphale was there. He would go, and when whatever Gabriel was doing was all over, running into his personal angel again was the simplest thing in the world. Aziraphale never misplaced his temper for long.

He wondered what Gabriel’s form would be like. Righteous. Not soft and plump and loveable, a gentle form to guide humans with, but hard and cold and perfect.

Aziraphale had spoken of Gabriel with admiration. He was almost sure he had, and why not? A shining, righteous, unFallen angel with sword in hand, not a snake-like demon who had been irrationally clingy since the Garden.

But there was no way Gabriel felt like Crawly did about Aziraphale. He couldn’t have resisted following him to Earth if he felt half as drawn to him, had felt half as much—as strongly—if he—felt— The word lurked at the edge of his mind, unthinkable.

Crawly ordered more beer, cursing to himself. He was sure he was in big trouble. And possibly in an exquisite version of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I’ve changed the description, as this story hasn’t really become the kind of light-hearted dates through the ages fic I initially had in mind. Just can’t help myself with the pining and angst and tortured demon.
> 
> 2) Twenty Squares is also known as the Royal Game of Ur, and was played throughout antiquity from Mesopotamia onwards. T requested that they play it, which was a fantastic idea, and I wasted way too much time playing it online myself to become familiar. It’s fun, if you like elegant abstract strategy on a pretty board. It was apparently sometimes also used for fortune telling
> 
> 3) I probably don't have to say this at this point, but please do not try too hard to correlate the dates with evidence based history. Date taken from biblehub.com this time.
> 
> 4) Just an interlude, but at least I can catch my breath before I tackle Risen!Crowley and Fallen!Gabriel. I won’t keep you waiting too long.
> 
> 5) Seriously, thank you with the comments. You guys make this such a joy.


	9. Crowley, Aziraphale and Gabriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snakes aren't supposed to bounce, but who can account for celestial powers?

####  London, Present Day

It was some minutes before Crowley, huddled in white feathers, regained his senses enough to realise he was missing whatever was going on back in the bookshop. Precious minutes. Minutes in which his angel was alone being talked to by the archangel—by—by the demon Gabriel.

He tried to tell himself it was just an unpleasant dream, but the grit in the road was digging into his knees and tearing his trousers and it was all real, he knew it in his heart.

“Hey, mate. Convention was over ages ago. If you’re going to sleep in the street, at least take the bloody stupid wings off."

Crowley raised his head and tried to summon the maggot form. Nothing happened, and the human just gave him disgusted look and moved on. Maggots might be one of God’s creatures great and small, and quite useful parts of the ecology, but they weren’t really seraphic creatures.

He clambered to his feet and retracted his wings. He was sick of the sight of them, anyway. So, he could still do the snake, but not the monster. He supposed it was because the snake was close to his Heavenly form, albeit colder and with less eyes and wings, and what did it matter anyway when for all he knew Aziraphale was falling to Gabriel’s wiles?

He leaned against the wall near the window and eavesdropped for all he was worth.

“…punishment."

“I’m not sure. I didn’t sense any anger or disapproval. He seemed, well, jittery."

“Jittery?” Gabriel’s voice dripped scorn. “A jittery seraph? Look, I remember Botis from way back. Completely enraptured with himself. He tried to make me Fall, you know, and failed."

“I never would be able to tell,” said Aziraphale with some asperity.

“Hey, takes a better angel than Botis to tempt me.” That was definitely a flirtatious tone. Crowley was going to destroy Gabriel, just as soon as he could make himself move. His arms and legs appeared to have been turned to ice.

“And yet he is unFallen, and you, my dear..."

Crowley could almost hear the shrug, even through the sudden blinding pain of the endearment. “He hung off Lucifer and Xaphan’s wing feathers a lot, but the snivelling little snake was weak as shit. Sensitive artistic type, all about designing glamorous constellations and moaning that the Almighty didn’t notice him enough. He didn’t strike me as the kind to have the courage of his convictions."

“No, I suppose not, if you accept that not Falling is actually some kind of moral weakness.” Crowley waited in vain for Aziraphale to mention that he had approached him in Heaven too. “In any case, he didn’t mention taking me back to Heaven. He asked me to _lunch,_ ” he added, sounding pathetically bewildered.

“Knows your weak points, then. I hope you told him you already have a date. Look, maybe he does know about me after all, and is looking for hints on Falling with a sexy demon."

“That’s not very funny, dear,” said Aziraphale, while black spots floated in front of Crowley’s eyes.

“Oh, come on. I thought it was very good.” Gabriel laughed genially.

“He said… He said we had established hand-holding was fine. Hand-holding over lunch, he said."

“Did he mean he's intending to hold your hand? Am I going to have to bust some angel nose for my baby?” Now there were invisible hands trying to tear out Crowley’s spine.

“I hardly think so. I haven’t even spoken to him for just over six thousand years. And don’t call me that,” added Aziraphale sharply. Some of the hands decided to take a rest.

“Earth surveillance, then,” said Gabriel, and the hands resumed their work on Crowley’s spine. “Maybe he’s giving you a warning."

“They hardly ever check it. I _did_ warn you to be more discreet."

“You shouldn’t be so damn prim, then. Would provoke a saint, let alone a demon."

“In any case, I told him to come back in an hour, and I have to give him some kind of explanation as to why I just threw him out. So lunch is off, my dear. And you should be leaving."

“Ditched for a seraph,” Gabriel groaned. “All right, then. Lie your angelic little heart out. I believe in you."

Aziraphale gave a sound between a hum and a snort, and there was the sound of Gabriel rising, and Crowley couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear it at all, couldn’t bear the thought of what might be happening with his angel and a demon who was stronger, more dynamic, better looking, better at being an Adversary, and wouldn’t have wasted sixty fucking centuries dancing around flirting and accepting rejections, and even had blue eyes.

He stayed motionless, his face in his hands. Praying again. He was an angel, after all. He could pray, surely. But all he could find was desperation and anger, for all he knew She hated to have demands made or be questioned. _This isn’t what I meant, you know it’s not what I meant. Put it back, make it better. Please._

Silence, only silence.

He tried to regain some self control. He needed to know what was going on. His dream—had that been a true vision? A fragment of memory from this reality, a clue from the Almighty? If he reached back in his mind, could he remember more about what this was like, find some clues?

He started to concentrate, only slightly thrown off by concentration tasting of butter rather than brimstone, when he heard Aziraphale sigh and rustle some books inside and _what was he thinking?_ He didn’t know Aziraphale in this reality! Why was he trying to overwrite his precious memories with ones in which he had one brief conversation with Aziraphale rather than thousands of years of loving him?

 _Loving him._ The words come swiftly and easily to Crowley's mind. With aching pain, with heartbreak, but with no fear or urge to reject.

 _Loving_. Not just wanting. Not just desiring, or being fascinated, or being charmed, or even needing. All those things too, but under it, burning faithful love. He’d always known it, but the chains around his neck had made the word almost unthinkable, and now it came readily to his mind.

“I love him,” he whispered, and the words came to his lips too, without any shudders of going against his nature, but with fierce intense joy and pain commingled. “I love Aziraphale."

And as easily as that, some of Crowley’s boundless optimism returned to him. He was not Botis, not the Botis of six thousand years ago, certainly not whatever Botis had managed to endure all that time in Heaven without Falling, and without Aziraphale. Crowley didn’t even know why this world still existed—surely Gabriel wouldn’t have bollocksed up the baby swap, so why had the little Prince of Hell not caused Armageddon? Not that it mattered. Whatever had created the reality of unFallen Botis had nothing to do with him.

He was Crowley. Crowley who had loved Aziraphale since the beginning of the planet. Crowley who had challenged the combined forces of Heaven and Hell by his side. Whatever course history had taken, Crowley was sure it couldn’t have changed that golden, immutable heart in any fundamental way.

So Aziraphale didn’t know Crowley yet. So he seemed disturbingly attached to Gabriel. So what? Crowley knew Aziraphale inside out. He knew his virtues, his weak spots, his pleasures, his loneliness, his intellect, his temper, his compassion. Crowley had the wiliness and infernal powers of all those long, long years of being a demon, and turning his wings white apparently hadn’t changed his ability or inclination to use them. And now, he had the one weapon that had been taken away from Gabriel forever.

_I don’t think you’ve ever once offered me what I really want._

Just try and stop him offering it now.

Crowley checked his watch. Nearly 1 pm, in London at that. Aziraphale would be anxiously waiting for him, and he did hate to worry him. Crowley had to hurry if he was going to get his angel down to Whitstable in time for a decadent oyster lunch, even if he sent strong suggestions to the restaurant staff that they didn’t want to stop lunch service quite yet. Then, if changing his position in the celestial hierarchy hadn’t completely rearranged concert schedules as well, they had a performance of _Picnic at Hanging Rock_ to attend. Aziraphale still talked of romance and sex in terms of courting. Well, Aziraphale was going to get six thousand years of courting crammed into as few days as Crowley could manage.

He magicked away any tear stains, and made his way into the bookshop with his best demonic swagger.

“Ah, Botis.” Aziraphale looked up from the monstera plant, which he had been poking thoughtfully, and looked up, his face wrinkled with the slight perplexity that meant he was preparing to fib through his pearly teeth.

Crowley mentally changed the music playing on the gramophone. No more heartbreaking crooning tenors. Orff was embarrassingly melodramatic? Well, the time for any self-restraint was long gone.

As the voices of the massed choirs of Verdi’s _Requiem_ exploded upwards, Crowley swung himself onto Aziraphale’s desk. “That’s a name for Heaven. Let’s agree not to use it on Earth. Come out to lunch, you’ll like my car."

> Day of wrath  
>  that day  
>  Earth will be in ashes

Or an ex-archangel could be in ashes. He wasn’t picky. Anything or anyone that got between him and Aziraphale could burn. Part of him longed for the confrontation.

Aziraphale's blinked at him from behind his spectacles, clearly startled at a strange angel perching on his desk in such a familiar way. “Whatever shall I call you, then?"

Crowley smiled like a snake. Then he removed his own glasses, and let his eyes meet Aziraphale’s with all the yearning in his heart.

“Let’s start with Anthony."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Structure be damned, or blessed, or whatever. I think we might just stay in the present day for a while.


	10. Strangers when we meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley introduces his new Aziraphale to the Bentley.

####  London, Present Day

There was a blue Aston Martin sports car parked next to the Bentley. Devoted to the Bentley as he was, anxious as he was, Crowley couldn’t help a sideways glance at the magnolia leather seats and dark walnut veneer. Sleek, expensive, somehow smug. He hated it.

Crowley opened the Bentley passenger door with a chivalrous flourish. Not something he often did, but after all, these were the first steps in a Seduction. Not any old seduction, but The Seduction. He had to start it off right, even if the the fact that the person being ushered in was a part time second hand book dealer in an ancient coat was gaining him some funny looks from passers by. They just didn’t recognise transcendent loveliness when they saw it.

“It’s a very nice car,” Aziraphale said, with some relief. “Very well kept. You may find that these old girls don’t keep up with the traffic very well, though, if you haven’t been down here for a while."

“Oh, I’m not worried about that,” Crowley said cheerfully, rifling through his ancient CDs. Handel’s _Water Music._ Pompous, but Aziraphale liked it, and possibly it would trigger some memories in Aziraphale of—of what? Crowley could remember leaving Tadfield Airport in a stolen military jeep with a tape deck and a cassette of _Water Music_ , but he could also remember a bus that was supposedly going to Oxford. He had to clamp down on a sense of panic.

Aziraphale wouldn’t remember either memory. Crowley had to remember for both of them. It was not a jeep, it was a bus. They had sat side by side and their thighs and shoulders had pressed together. Sometimes the back of their hands had brushed and somehow everything had seemed too fragile and precious to risk turning his hand over and grasping that of Aziraphale. Don’t go too fast… Stupid, stupid. He should have taken advantage of the situation, taken Aziraphale's hand, and kissed it. Just like Aziraphale had kissed his own fingertips just last night.

Crowley couldn’t afford to become confused about his memories. He couldn’t afford to lose his reference points. He turned his head slightly, to focus on the profile beside his. Such a nice profile, good strong nose, generous ears, firm chin, loving mouth, reliable yet mellow. A reference point solid enough to build a reality on. It would be all right.

And after all, She had been surprisingly gracious. She could have summoned him back to Heaven and commanded him to be righteous. Instead, She had left him clothes, his plants, his Bentley, even his CDs. All the world was familiar, except for him, and Gabriel. Aziraphale was still Aziraphale. He was sure of it.

Crowley relaxed and chose another CD. Bach. They both liked Bach. _Air on a G String_ , a romantic cliche, and romantic cliches were probably a good idea.

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale said with little luxuriant sigh, and Crowley repressed a triumphant smile as they pulled out, watching the speedometer for the first time in the Bentley’s life.

Aziraphale shifted in his seat a few times, peeping curiously across, biting his lip. Perhaps he was just worried about the lack of seat belts. Crowley tried to focus on the road like a model angelic driver, and waited for him to speak.

“Why did you bring me a pot plant? I’ve been wondering about it."

“That’s what humans do, isn’t it? Bring vegetation, when they want to renew an acquaintance with an old friend."

“I think flowers are more usual."

“I’ll bring you a dozen red roses next time, then.” Crowley let the corners of his lips tilt up, and from the corner of his eye, he was sure he saw Aziraphale flush.

He had never given Aziraphale flowers. Why not? He should have buried him in red and coral roses. Crowley had a hand in inventing floriography and tussie-mussies as useful ways to promote secrets and sins and elopements, yet it had never once occurred to him to give Aziraphale a giant bunch of camellias, red for fiery love, pink for longing, white to tell his friend he was adorable to him. Why hadn’t he? Even if the words had been difficult for a demon, that was what the language of flowers was supposed to do, speak the unspoken. Red carnations for _I love you_ , jonquils for _return my affection_. Enough flowers, and even Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to pretend not to read the messages.

What was _I can’t live without you_ again? Ah, that was it, primroses. Crowley had no idea if florists usually stocked them, but he made a mental note to arrange that they did.

Trying to communicate with his body from the get-go had always put Aziraphale on the defensive. He’d do better this time around.

“I still don’t understand _why._ ” Aziraphale helplessly spread elegant fingers.

“Why gifts of vegetation? Humans are weird."

“Why you came to the bookshop looking for me."

Crowley hesitated. He could say it now, of course. _I’ve loved you for six thousand years._ It might even be true of Botis, for all he knew. After all, he had apparently not Fallen for Aziraphale’s sake, and maybe some things were Fate after all. But that didn’t explain centuries of lack of contact, and what a bloody idiot Botis had been not to go after him to Earth, to let him fall into Gabriel’s hands.

If Botis still existed in some reality, in _his_ reality, Crowley hoped he was having a really ghastly time as a demon.

“You said it was all going to be rather fun, do you remember? The humans, I mean. Earth. The Ineffable Plan."

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I did."

Crowley let the Bentley, which had been complaining at the unusual restraint, have its head. “I think it’s time I started having some fun.” The strings from the stereo soared around them as they left the city. “Starting with a truly fantastic lunch, and a lot of wine. And you, angel, are my elected guide."

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, looking bit happier, although his hand was starting to clench a little on the window frame as the car moved faster. “I suppose,” he added conversationally, “you are wondering why I asked you to leave all of a sudden. It so happens that—"

Crowley decided he didn’t want Aziraphale to lie to him. Not big lies, in any case. Small, hypocritical and white lies were the grease which helped their friendship run smoothly when they were from different sides. But big lies, no. Not between them. Not ever again. They hurt too damn much.

 _You’re lying to him right now,_ his mind prompted, but he ignored it. What was he supposed to do, he asked what passed for his conscience, say hey, I look like a seraph but I’m your demon best friend from another branch of reality and I’m madly in love with you, so ditch the loser and shack up with me? That would earn a frantic call straight Upstairs.

“I’m not here to get you in trouble for fraternising with demons,” he said flatly.

“Oh.” Aziraphale flopped back in the seat, but that might have been out of G forces, as the Bentley stretched her—tires. That thought was going nowhere. “Oh dear."

“Whatever you are doing with the Archangel Gabriel is none of my business and I don’t want to know about it,” Crowley lied. Oh, well. Just because he didn’t want Aziraphale to lie to him didn’t mean it necessarily had to go both way.

Aziraphale tittered uncomfortably. “I don’t think he’d like to be called that these days.” Always courteous, even to an absent demon.

“I’m not familiar with his current name."

“Asmodeus,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Huh."

“It’s not what you think—"

“I know you’re not conspiring with Hell to overthrow Heaven,” said Crowley, wishing it really was that rather than an Arrangement with Gabriel, whatever he called himself now. Had they embraced goodbye, had they kissed? Did they spend long nights drinking and talking together? Seriously, why was Aziraphale even Gabriel’s type, unless his demon self saw a fluffy sheep and decided it would be irresistible to bully? “Look, you’re sympathetic to Fallen angels, right? You talked to me, and you were kind, when I was Falling. And it seems you caught me.” Oh, by all Existence, had Aziraphale caught him. “You’re not the type to stop caring about angels just because they've rebelled. You’re too compassionate for that. And probably too polite."

“They are Evil reprobates, but they were our siblings,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“You’ve been terribly lonely, haven’t you? For thousands of years, the humans passing by like the seasons. You’ve needed a familiar face. Well, that’s all right. I understand. And I’m here now."

“Are you trying to get me to compromise myself?” Aziraphale said with sudden sharpness.

“Angel, I swear to you, I will never, ever do anything to do you harm.” Crowley reached across and took Aziraphale’s hand, looking tenderly into his face. “I mean you only every good in the world.” He put his other hand affectionately on a rounded knee.

“ _For Heaven’s sake hold the steering wheel and watch the road!_ "

“Oh. Sorry,” said Crowley, getting the Bentley back on the tarmac. “Look, I’m not going to tell tales to Upstairs, so put that right out of your mind. "

“Then what do you want of me, Anthony?"

“I told you. Lunch. I’ll even pay. Fun. Introduce me to Earth. Your company. Stay by my side a bit while I figure out how all this works into Her plan for me." He took a deep breath. “Your friendship."

That clear, pure and dangerously intelligent face watching him, assessing him as if seeing him for the first time. What did he see? It wasn’t a bad corporeal form, Crowley thought, even if wasn’t a patch on that bastard Gabriel’s. But then, neither was Aziraphale’s, except that Aziraphale was obviously perfect. Crowley could feel heat rising over his face.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time with the First Sphere, but you are nothing like I expected a seraph to be. Would you please take off your dark glasses for me?” Aziraphale said. Crowley obeyed, and then put his suddenly shaking hand back on the steering wheel like a good angel.

“Why do you wear them? You have beautiful eyes, my dear."

Oh, he was going to die of heat. “You should've seen them yesterday."

Aziraphale laughed, a delightful chuckle. “I always think eyes look too bright in Heaven, even in human form. I prefer this world."

“To the world, then.” Crowley’s heart felt like it was exploding.

The floating feeling lasted all the way to Whitstable, and through an excellent seafood lunch, which Crowley didn’t eat much of because he was too busy watching Aziraphale. It lasted until Crowley was at the bar arranging to take more wine away, and noticed the angel wasn’t with him anymore. Well, all right. It was a sparkling, glorious day, and he had probably gone to wait outside by the Bentley.

Aziraphale wasn’t the type, in any world, to have a mobile phone, but outside the restaurant was one of the last remaining public telephones in the United Kingdom. As Crowley left the restaurant, he saw Aziraphale hang up, a guilty expression on his face.

There was no point in asking, he thought, as he opened his door and cast himself into the driving seat. Aziraphale had taken the first opportunity to go ring Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Only 24 DB 47 Vantage Jubilees were ever made, and were presented to their owners in a special ceremony at Thornbury Castle, along with matching watches. Like Bentley, Aston Martins have a pair of wings as their symbol.
> 
> 2) Asmodeus is a powerful demon "opposed to" Gabriel. Things he is noted for in various traditions: dressing well, being good-looking, charming and humorous, and getting in the way of people trying to have sex with their spouse. Not even kidding on that one (see the Book of Tobit..)


	11. By your side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter than usual--the flashback seemed too short to stand alone, so we are back to London halfway through.

#### Egypt, 1548 BC

Crawly had never actually feared to approach the angel, not even in Eden. Now, looking at shoulders that should be rounded held hard and rigid, he stared at his back, and felt something like fear for the first time. He knew that Principalities were technically soldiers. It no longer felt amusing when looking at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale sensed he was there without the approach. “I heard you’d taken my advice and gone to the Yellow River.” His voice was expressionless. No turning, no glad “Hello, Crawly,” no burst of sunshine. He stood staring at the sun shimmering on the water.

“I heard you stayed near the Nile.” He licked suddenly dry lips, wishing he had the courage to take the last few steps, wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s waist from behind, and just hold him. If only his last attempt at offering physical comfort hadn’t gone so wrong. “So I came back."

“Gabriel and Mashit didn’t need me. A lot of burning and pillaging and enslaving of innocent cities to do on the journey. Not really my thing."

“No. They might have noticed the lack of flaming sword."

“Right.” He had never felt coldness from Aziraphale before. Coldness and anger. As the Flood waters had risen, Aziraphale had wept, and put the people to sleep to drown peacefully, then gone far away without telling Crawly where he was going. But now, there was sheer freezing anger at the Heavens. Crawly knew the signs. The angel was Questioning, and on the verge of Falling.

Fuck Gabriel and Mashit and Uriel and the whole damn lot of them for leaving Aziraphale here in the aftermath of their bloody carnival without help or comfort. As if he didn’t _matter_.

“I thought I should pop back to the garden and check how my plants were doing, anyway."

“Much better without you."

Crawly wasn’t sure if he should thank Aziraphale for checking on his garden, or be offended. He chose the latter, glad at a somewhat normal bit of cattiness from the angel. “That was harsh."

“Harsh?” Aziraphale's shoulders were shaking, and for a moment Crawly thought he was weeping. “No. Locusts are harsh. Boils are harsh. Killing children..."

“Is something my side would do. Only your side does too. At least we don’t pretend to do it for righteousness."

“The Pharaoh was told to let the slaves go."

“Only those particular slaves. Anyway, it wasn’t the decision of the ordinary parents, was it? And you said something about Abraham’s lot enslaving people too. Hagar, she was one of their Egyptian slaves, wasn't she? Humans are always doing these things to each other. They don’t need us to make it worse.” Curse both Hell and Heaven, what was he doing? Aziraphale didn’t need theological arguments right now. He needed comfort.

Crawly stepped forward at last, hardly daring to come close, settling for standing shoulder to shoulder without touching. Crawly wanted desperately to say: _You’re Falling, but it’s all right, I’ll catch you. We’ll be together, love. Don’t be scared._ Instead he said, “Dagon was your friend up Above, yeah? They’re not so bad, as infernal superiors go. They leave me alone to do pretty much my own thing, as long as I send Down paperwork. I can put in a word."

The words hung there, for the first time, an acknowledgement of the possibility of being on the same side.

Aziraphale turned at last, and Crawly expected to see white hot rage and rebellion. He was taken aback by a soft, sad smile, swimming tears. “Sometimes, for a demon, you are very kind."

“No, no, don’t say that.” He wanted to be kind, that was the worst bit. He wanted to be more than kind. He wanted to take Aziraphale’s face in his hands and smother it with kisses, until there was no room on it for grief, kiss away every hurting thought, claim him right there on the riverbank despite the humans, and fill his world so full that there was no corner of it left for this pain. Then hold him close and keep him safe, as if Crawly wasn’t a demon. As if he could keep anyone safe. As if a creature of love like this angel could belong to him.

Instead, Crawly said, “Come back to China with me. You’ll like the Xia, they’re clever people, great engineers. Pretty calligraphy for you to learn, and you’ll enjoy the oracle bones. Lots of prophecies for you to pull apart and explain at length why they are wrong until they throw them at you."

“I can’t. A lot of bereaved parents here, a lot of children orphaned by the Red Sea. I need to do what I can. I’m sure—I’m sure my presence here is part of the Her will. The lower you start, the higher you go."

He was wrong. Aziraphale might doubt policy, but he would never Fall. He would choose love and hope, every time. It was strange and terrible that he would even consider a demon for a friend, and also somehow just like him.

“All right.” Crawly ground a scaly toe into the dirt. “I can’t really go around purifying water, healing the sick, making crops grow better, you know. For whatever reason, my side apparently wanted this too. Still. If I can do anything _for you_ , just ask."

“Stay by my side for a while?” Aziraphale asked it as simply as if it was a natural thing for an angel to ask a demon.

“Yeah, okay.” As if it was no big a deal for a demon to promise an angel that.

There weren’t any pleasure boats on the Nile that day.

Later, when the Arrangement was fully in place and he’d done plenty of blessings and minor miracles on Aziraphale’s behalf, Crowley would wish he had helped share the load more in Egypt. Even more, he wished he’d been able to express some of what he was feeling.

Mostly, as with other painful things, he tried not to think about it.

#### London, Present Day

Crowley woke from a fitful nap. His flat was so bright. Why had he decided that decking it out all in pristine white and neon lights like a nightmare from Heaven was a good idea? There were other ways to look like an ostentatiously successful human. Much more comfortable ways.

He blinked awake. No, that wasn’t right. His apartment was all in the exciting dark brushed concrete he’d decided on after reading an article about how the rich always ended up emulating the poor except expensively, and it was only bright because Aziraphale had turned up the lights and heat two days before.

He turned the lights down, leaving the heat on, and wandered into his never used bathroom, to stare at his reflection. No real difference, except for a faint silvery glow, and eyes that were more amber than yellow, with round pupils. He missed his old eyes. He resisted the urge to get out his wings to check again, and splashed cold water on his face, materialising a suit.

He padded into the atrium to visit his house plants. He needed to hurry. He had managed to elicit a promise from Aziraphale to come to the concert tonight, and he would be damned—Fallen again? That might actually be nice— if he was too late. He glared around at his plants, and they responded adoringly by putting out new leaves and spontaneously bursting into bloom. Being an angel was even ore boring as he remembered.

“All right,” he growled, aware that they seemed to be trying to catch his eye rather avoid his attention. “Which one of you is going to turn into a rosebush?"

Half an hour, he was jumping out of the Bentley, incredibly relieved that the Aston Martin was missing. He wasn’t sure how he would manage to hold it together and not sulk and snarl in front of Gabriel or Asmodeus or whatever stupid dramatic name he had. It was important to remember that Aziraphale no longer had centuries of developing tolerance for his moods.

He pushed open the door of the bookshop without knocking, forgetting that he didn’t have the right. Aziraphale was in the main bookshop adding a volume to a teetering stack and turned, probably to warn him that the shop was actually closed this time, and—

Aziraphale's face lit up with glad, fond recognition. His lips parted as if to speak in greeting. Crowley froze, stunned, hardly believing the sight, his heart suddenly hurting in a pain he would gladly endure forever if Aziraphale only said his name.

Then, as quickly as it was there, the recognition faded, and Aziraphale was flustered and perplexed and a bit embarrassed, but courteous as always. “Ah, Bo--Anthony. You’re a little late."

“Bad habit. They’ll hold the seats. Here.” He held out a bunch of deep coral roses with a flourish, ignoring the strange mixture of elation and disappointment. It had happened once, it will happen again, he told himself. It had to. He would make sure it did. This was his Aziraphale, who could never truly forget hi, no matter what sadistic tricks God played. “More vegetation. Grown in my own atrium."

The scent of the roses hung like Turkish Delight in the air, angel-grown roses exchanged between angels. Had that ever happened before, Crowley wondered? But then, had an angel ever held a demon’s hands and kissed their fingertips? So many firsts.

Aziraphale behaved exactly as planned, which was unusual enough that it made Crowley suspicious. Of course, in his head, Aziraphale had coloured and fluttered and inhaled their scent, touching one petal daintily so as not to bruise it. At the same time, even when coming up with the fantasy, Crowley had suspected some sharp or bantering remark, and he was a little thrown by just how adorable Aziraphale’s pleasure in the roses were.

It should make him happy. It did make him melt. But it also made him suspicious. Aziraphale on model behaviour had him on guard.

No, that was stupid. Aziraphale just wasn’t comfortable enough with him yet to be snippy. He had to remember that banter from Aziraphale was a generally compliment earned only after a long history of companionship.

“You have an atrium?"

“Yeah. I like plants.” Crowley thought about that more honestly. “I mean, I appreciate them. When they behave. Got to keep your eyes on them, though."

Aziraphale looked amused and pleased. “One of the more lovely innovations of this planet, I think. These are truly lovely.” He touched a glossy rose leaf, as if not quite believing the gesture. _Beat that, Gabriel,_ Crowley thought, and then was immediately seized with panic. If Gabriel actually was pursuing or worse his angel, of course he would effortlessly pull off every romantic gesture Crowley usually wouldn’t think about. “I’ll put them in water."

Crowley had preloaded the car with a playlist this time. He wasn’t fond of the compression issues of MP3s, but Aziraphale used a gramophone, he would be fine. He hoped Aziraphale’s ear for German was up to scratch. The angel could read over a thousand of the languages that sprung up after Babel, but he’d become lazy about speaking them once they’d settled in the United Kingdom.

_Liebestod_ poured out of the speakers, and Aziraphale sighed appreciatively. Why had he never thought of using music to communicate before? Well, apart from Queen not really being Aziraphale’s choice. Still, as long as he remembered not to leave anything in the car, it might have worked.

> Softly and gently, see him smiling.  
> How the eye opens fondly

“I thought you’d like it, angel.” Crowley said. “I know Wagner is melodramatic, but this seems like you, somehow."

“It’s very sad."

“Yes. Yes it is.” Crowley stared at the road for once. “They needed a miracle. But that’s what we do. I haven’t lost my belief in my ability to make one." 

> Ever lighter, how he is shining,  
>  borne on high amidst the stars

“Why do you call me angel?” Aziraphale asked abruptly.

“Well, you are one,” Crowley said reasonably.

“Well, so are you, and so is everyone from the Heavenly Host,” Aziraphale pointed out, equally reasonably. “Why me in particular?” He grabbed the edge of his seat. “Is it really necessary to take the corner that fast?"

“We’re late.” He spun the wheel. “Some angels are more angelic than others, I guess." 

> As from lips so joyfully mild,  
>  sweet the breath that softly stirs

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m not really a good example of magnificent divine Grace."

“You’re perfect.” The words fell out too easily, reminding him that it wasn’t just his eyes that had changed, and Aziraphale started. He would have to be careful, given how easy it was to speak words of love now. “I mean, you’re a Principality. You’re much better Created to make people want to love and trust your guidance than if you were seven foot of terrifying muscle."

Aziraphale smiled as if lit up from within. “That’s a lovely thought."

_You’re lovely._ He managed to repress it this time. “Right, let’s get this tone poem over and done with."

Aziraphale gave him a funny look. “It was your choice."

Crowley grimaced cheerfully. “Got to be open to the pleasures of the world, no matter how unlikely they seem."

“You seem to be doing a good job of it already.” Aziraphale’s voice was light and innocent and one would have to know him quite well to detect the suspicion in it. “That restaurant was excellent. Been down long? I keep thinking your form is familiar somehow, but I’m sure I would remember an angel dressed like you."

“I would never forget you, angel. I’ve been interested in the world for a very, very long time, but I suppose you could say yesterday was little Anthony’s first day on the planet. Right, we’re here.” He remembered to go around and open the Bentley door.

Perhaps the music had been a bad choice. Why had Aziraphale wanted _Picnic at Hanging Rock_? It was beautiful, true, but unsettling, and Crowley’s anxiety was high enough already. What had Aziraphale, his Aziraphale, been trying to tell him by insisting he listen to it? Crowley sat and tried to puzzle it out, through the lilting jangling notes, the underlying tension. Surely not just, “It’s creepy, you’ll like it.” Aziraphale was rarely as simple as he seemed.

He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the music. Strange choice for an angel so set in his ways, Swedish impressionist orchestration. Crowley's thoughts bounced across the fluting notes. Still, it was nice of Aziraphale to want to keep in touch, even now they had lost the excuse of meeting at concerts to exchange notes. Crowley had become used to seeing him more often during the whole Antichrist business, and he had to admit to thinking it would be a pity if they’d gone their own separate ways more afterwards, Arrangement aside. It was probably a blasphemous thought for a demon, but they had a lot of shared history one way or another, and Aziraphale had been feeling like an important friend, lately.

Crowley’s eyes flew open, and sheer panicky terror made him grope blindly for Aziraphale’s hand, passing over his thigh and finding it at last. He clutched it so tight he must have been hurting the angel, but he found it pressed reassuringly in return.

“Are you all right?” the angel hissed.

“It’s just—intense.” He could no more relax his grip than he could return to his own world. Aziraphale, his angel. His eyes weren’t as good at night vision as they had been, but they were still better than humans, and he drank in that sweet beloved face, turned to his in concern. He couldn't lose it. He couldn't lose his memories for it. Not after that precious flash of recognition on Aziraphale's face at the bookshop.

“Human music can be quite intense. Don’t worry, the next item is less difficult.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand again, and Crowley stayed still, willing his heart to slow, his breath to regulate.

He sat in the dark, and held onto Aziraphale like a lifeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Coral roses symbolise not yet requited desire and the yearning to move from friendly love (yellow) to passionate romantic love (red). Also, coral pink/orange is my favourite colour. ~projects~
> 
> 2) _Liebsetod_ , aka _Mild und leise, wie er lächel_ from Wagner’s _Tristan and Isolde_ is a horrendously depressing piece in which Isolde tries to convince herself Tristan is coming back to life, and to her. Translation by Paula Hanson.
> 
> 3) _Picnic at Hanging Rock_ is a tone poem by Britta Byström, based on the film by Peter Weir, based on the book by Joan Lindsey. I recommend all three. 
> 
> 4) Bless you all for your amazing engagement with this story.


	12. Asmodeus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guess my name.

####  London, Present Day

“Home, sweet home.” Crowley pulled the Bentley over. He looked across at Aziraphale, stuffy and somewhat muddled looking again, and clamped down on his own greediness. It was too early to invite himself in, pull out the booze, pretend he was back in a world that made sense. Too early even to insist on seeing the angel tomorrow, for fear of terrifying him away.

Instead, he could do this:

He leaned over and brushed his lips against Aziraphale’s cheek in a dry, chaste kiss, feeling the finely shaved skin, smelling for a moment the expensively tasteful cologne that overlaid the familiar golden scent that was was Aziraphale himself. Aziraphale always spent a lot on barbers and manicurists. This scent was a tribute to the barber’s taste, and understanding of Aziraphale: bright sunshiny pineapple notes with an undercurrent of solid, elegant leather and woods, a touch of smokiness like an old gentleman’s club. More than a touch. A good choice for Aziraphale, conservative but fruity in more ways than one.

“Thanks for a lovely evening. Keep in touch,” Crowley said lightly, happily watching the angel turn lightly pink.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said cordially, as if he meant it, and went into the bookshop. Maybe he did mean it. He had obviously liked the roses, and had held Crowley’s hand for quite a while before removing it to cover a cough and replacing it on his own seat rest. And then there had been that moment when he first saw Crowley...

Crowley sat still for a moment, testing the air, and the remnants of Aziraphale’s cologne. The scent was familiar, and it nagged at the edge of his consciousness. Not a fragrance Aziraphale had worn before, but one that had been useful in Crowley’s own work, because of its reputation as a hell of a boxer dropper. That was right, Aventus Creed. Some batches were quite smoky.

But _this_ smoky?

Possibly not, unless the cologne had not come from a barber, but from a demon who had deliberately tossed a bit of the signature of Hell into it. Marking his property like a tomcat.

Crowley said every unangelic curse he could think of, and sped the Bentley back to his flat.

Not that he had anything to do there. He flung himself on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow, he would talk to a florist, because with roses you could kind of just shove everything into a bunch and it would still look romantic, but beyond that flower arranging wasn’t really something Crowley had gone in for in his long life. He could hunt down and slay a demon. That would be a suitably seraphic act. Mind you, if Aziraphale found out...

Could pop up to Heaven just for the novelty and see how what was left of his choir were making out. No. He didn’t really miss them and they might notice his lack of memories. Even worse, it might provoke Botis’ memories, and Crowley couldn’t afford to risk that.

He could put loud music on and try and drain out the screaming in his head.

He could sleep. He snapped his clothes away and went to bed.

Sleep was a habit. He didn’t really need it. But it was a habit so ingrained that when he was tired, when his brain was chaotic, it called to him. Snuggle up, warm and comfortable, calling back memories of curling a serpentine body in the sun. Let his mind drift.

And then there was the precious moments just before sleep pulled him under, when memories and fantasies and desires jumbled up together and drifted across his mind. Different from fantasies feverishly summoned up and used for a purpose to relieve this corporeal body, which had become more and more necessary, even if infrequent in human terms, as experimenting with humans lost its freshness. No, the moments before sleep were overlapping and jumbled and sheer sweet emotion.

Despite their formlessness the drowsy fantasies felt real sometimes, real enough that he could convince himself that if he could fight through the delicious sleepiness enough, he could reach out and pull a solid body snugly against his. Stupid fantasy, really. Aziraphale didn’t see the point of sleep. Even if by some miracle they were lovers, Crowley would be sleeping alone while Aziraphale bustled about, making cups of cocoa and studying and listening to music and just being around, not making a heavy weight on the bed next to Crowley.

What the _Existence_ was the weight on the bed next to him, then?

Crowley’s eyes shot open and he sat up.

Gabriel—Asmodeus—grinned at him and put his hands behind his back, multifaceted eyes glinting. “Wondered when you’d wake up."

“How can you be here?” Crowley spluttered. “Demons can’t enter angel territory without permission. And why don’t you have any clothes on?"

“To take your last question first, neither do you. I didn’t want you to feel self conscious.” Crowley hastily materialised clothes, and then felt ridiculous, as if Asmodeus had just won a point. The worst thing was that instead of materialising a suit or jeans, which might have had some dignity, his mind had produced black silk pyjamas from the ether. “As for your first question, you’re no more a fucking angel than I am. I recognise the stench of Evil when I smell it, even if Aziraphale doesn’t."

Crowley took a deep breath, steadying himself. The shimmering moth eyes were unsettling in their lack of emotion, but—Asmodeus couldn’t be sure. Not _sure_. Even after entering the apartment. After all, had any demons ever _tried_ to enter angelic ground without at least implied angelic permission? Fear of smiting would generally be a problem, although the worst Aziraphale had every done to Crowley was to complain about him sitting on his papers.

Crowley managed to smile, as silkily as possible.

“Want me to change forms? I assure you, I am an unFallen seraph. Might set you on fire, though. Or do you want to check up on me?"

“Well, that part's quite perplexing,” Asmodeus admitted, stretching a bit, muscles rippling under the arrow of hair pointing as if to draw the eye down. What was Crowley thinking, as if? It was obviously deliberate.

Crowley fought an immediate sense of inadequacy. Human standards of beauty didn’t matter too much to him, except for work reasons. They changed too fast, with the only real constant being that whatever wealthy meant in a given society. He had seen every skin shade, every build, every human feature from tiny neat penises to huge earlobes fetishised, but he had also seen people manage to create temptation in each other with distinctly unfashionable configurations. His own forms, whatever the sex, had tended towards bony but muscular, and he’d never been particularly bothered. More important how suggestively he moved his hips and mouth.

But one style of masculine beauty never went out of fashion. The heroic muscular.

It was really unfair to have it lolling naked all over his bed, taking up all the space.

“I checked up on you, you know. Back channels. No one’s really sure what you’ve been doing all this time, since you broke with Lucifer. Earth observation, officially, but that’s not really in your Sphere, is it? Seem to have assigned yourself without doing the paperwork, and everyone was too busy preparing for Armageddon to object.” Asmodeus reached out and patted Crowley’s silk clad knee. “Don’t tell me you’ve spent six thousand years watching and pining over my angel. That would _really_ be pathetic."

Yes, it would, Crowley secretly agreed. Even worse than hanging after him like a puppy on earth for six thousand years would be. At least he’d had a fair amount of Aziraphale’s attention. He was beginning to really despise Botis.

“Interesting suspicions. So what are you going to do about them?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Asmodeus amiably. “You know, Botis, why I was kind of fond of you in Heaven, even though you are a useless little pisspot? Because you, my friend, even if you were handed the universe on a plate, would manage to turn the plate upside down and drop it, and then step on it for good measure. Wouldn’t be able to help yourself."

“Do you really want to risk talking to a seraph in this way?"

“Oh, don’t give me that crap. You arrogant jerks, you never really understood how the Spheres worked, did you? The Hierarchy is between serving God and being closer to humans, not chain of command. If you’d bothered to pay attention, this whole thing is about the humans and this planet, not us. If you tell me a Chariot has more authority on Earth than a fucking archangel, then you’re delusional."

“So you’re just going to leave me be?” Crowley asked, not believing it for a moment.

“Well that depends. Now, if I told Aziraphale I thought you were a demon, he would think I was insane, or plotting something. You’re clearly an unFallen seraph even if you’re evil to the core. And right now, he’s not sure, but he thinks you may have saved our lives. His own guardian angel."

“What?"

Asmodeus sat up and flung a companionable arm over his shoulder. “The whole business with little Warlock. No one really knows why he decided not to call Armageddon. Our side was pissed off, I can tell you, although not as badly as yours probably was. But Aziraphale—Aziraphale thinks it was probably Divine Intervention. Someone secretly on our side, looking after us and his precious planet. And along you come, remembering him from heaven, an actual seraph simmering adoringly at him. Knowing his dirty little fraternising secret, and promising to keep it. Taking him on dates, holding his hand, giving him _roses_. A simple minded, trusting angel might have his head turned by something like that. And let me tell you something between you and me, Botis, that particular angel has a rescue fetish."

“Why are you telling me this?” Crowley stared straight ahead, for fear of turning his face too close to Asmodeus’ beautiful one. Asmodeus might, with those unsettling eyes, see all his own secret fantasies of swaggering in to save Aziraphale from peril after peril.

“Because the more ammunition I give you, my friend, the faster and more often you will shoot yourself in the foot. And that will be highly entertaining to watch.” Asmodeus squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll warn you that the angel probably won’t put out, but given the looks you’ve been giving him, you’re going to find it hard not to push, aren’t you? You might have found an easier route to Falling, if that’s what you really want. I’d even volunteer, if you like."

“Does—does that mean you, and he didn’t—"

“Oh, I can’t tell you _all_ my little secrets.” Asmodeus sprang off the bed, and a perfect suit settled around him, somehow making him look even more perfect. “Shall we compete, then? The heart of the angel. As for the stakes—well. Demonic contract law is my speciality. Expect something in the mail."

“What if I refuse?"

“Then I go straight to your superior and tell them you’re hanging around on Earth using wiles to seduce an angel in the pursuit of his duties. Kerubiel, isn’t it? Seven Heavens tall, from memory. Wouldn’t want to get on their bad side.” Mirrored glasses materialised on the bridge of Asmodeus’ nose.

“By the way, Crowley?"

“ _What_?” Crowley’s head whipped around faster than it could in its serpent form.

“Which angelic sphere do you think prayers from Earth pass through?"

But Asmodeus was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) There are famously over 8,000 pages comparing the virtues of different batch numbers of Creed Aventus on Basenotes. Do not underestimate the obsession. Anyway, Creed have been around since the 18th century and are associated with British royalty, Empress Eugenie and US First Ladies. Well established enough for Zira, even if Adventus is more modern.
> 
> 2) One of Gabriel’s associations is with moths.
> 
> 3) Seriously, lesbians should not have to read Buzzfeed’s Most Important Celebrity Hairy Chests to work out what John Hamm looks like with his shirt off. The things I do for research.
> 
> 4) Chapter summary is a quote from "Sympathy For the Devil" by the Rolling stones because--well. Sting in the tail. XD


	13. The Angel of Redemption and the Lord of the Files

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale receives a visit.

####  London, Four Days ago.

Heaven hadn’t left Aziraphale alone as long as he’d hoped.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” said a melodious voice, and he swallowed his cocoa down fast, looking at the almost unbearably perfect face of Uriel, the ironically named Prince of Repentance, pitiless as any demon. Certainly more pitiless than the demon Aziraphale spent most of his time with. Uriel, who was set over the final tortures of the sinners on the Day of Judgment, and had only recently been thwarted in her mission.

The words echoed in his head. And this was it, then. If Uriel had worked out the swapped bodies trick, then the river of hellfire would be waiting for him, and there would be no escape. Perhaps it would be better than Falling, after all. He hoped Crowley would have the sense to run for it, because if Heaven had suspicions, then—

“Hullo, Aziraphale,” said a rather less lovely voice. “Long time no see."

Aziraphale put his mug down quickly. “Hello, Uriel, Dagon. You are unusual company. What brings you to my shop?"

“We thought, “ Dagon said, smiling, “you might like to cut a deal.” Aziraphale looked into the demonic smile, and remembered the gleeful condemnation of Crowley to death by holy water, and mustered all his courage to smile serenely at them. It helped that Dagon was far more demure looking and less scaly up on Earth than in the dripping mess of Hell. With their red hair and frills around their neck like an Australian lizard, they could pass for one of the more attractive Tudors.

“An infernal contract? I’m afraid— "

“Not just infernal,” Uriel said, in her smooth, cold voice. “Holy as well. And not a contract. An offer. A way out of this mutually unpleasant impasse."

“A trilateral negotiation, you might say,” Dagon put in helpfully.

“I’ll just call Crowley to come in and discuss it,” Aziraphale said, wondering just how to phrase the phone call in order to warn Crowley what was up without arousing their suspicions. Even if he was doomed, Crowley might be able to make it out alone.

“No. No phone calls. Crowley already has a contract signed and sealed, six thousand years ago.” Uriel’s smile frosted her lips like ice. “The balance must be kept, Aziraphale. You understand that."

A terrible certainty leapt into his heart. “You want me to Fall, to save Crowley?” He couldn’t help feeling personally betrayed. Of course Uriel had condemned him to extinction, threatened him, but he was a fair angel, he could see in retrospect that was just part of her job. This, though—she was from his _team._

On the other hand. To save Crowley. It wasn’t really like he had any choice. He took a deep breath, feeling sick and giddy with fear. “All right."

Dagon laughed. “What use would _your_ smudged little soul be to our Prince? You’re probably going to belong to us eventually anyway. No, don’t worry about that."

Aziraphale blinked, feeling relieved, and guilty to be relieved, and also a little insulted. “What exactly do you want of me, then?"

Uriel shrugged a beautiful shoulder, making her perfectly tailored suit rise and fall like the swelling of the sea. “I want to give you and your boyfriend a chance at redemption. After all, isn’t that my job?"

“But fair’s fair,” said Dagon. “Balance and all that. There has to be a chance of failure, as well. An excellent chance."

“So what _do_ you want of me?"

The angel and demon exchanged meaningful glances, and Aziraphale had the unsettling idea that they understood each other far better than he had ever understood any of the other angels.

“Michael has it in her head,” Uriel said slowly, “that only a creature of love could survive holy water. That in some way your boyfriend must be capable of love, and therefore, redemption.” Aziraphale felt the shock deep within himself. _Michael_. Michael who had poured out Crowley’s eternal destruction with a smile, then stood in shock as Aziraphale survived. Michael who had looked at him as if every reference point she had was shattering from his survival… “Ridiculous, of course,” Uriel said. “I don’t understand it, she’s usually so sensible. But she is, after all, the Prince of Mercy."

“She’s delusional,” Dagon said bluntly. “That little snake never loved anyone but himself. One of his best qualities. Lust, on the other hand…” They grinned at Aziraphale and he looked away, blushing.

“Nonetheless,” Uriel said, “what matters is what _you_ think, Aziraphale."

“Me?” He blinked again.

“Is the demon Crowley capable of selfless love? Because if you agree, you’re gambling on it. Think on it well. We’re not going to force you into anything. We’ll be in touch. And remember—mention this to him, even hint at it, and all bets are off."

Aziraphale, alone in his shop, closed his eyes tight, and remembered. Six thousand years. So many memories. So many casual temptations and seduction attempts. Fingers trailed lightly up his thigh, lips and breath too close to ear or neck, meaningful glances, double-edged words. A fairly harmless game unless either of them took it seriously. Crowley always stopped pushing when Aziraphale showed signs of irritation, and after all, tempting was his job, just like thwarting was Aziraphale’s. The angel had never resented it. He had, in fact, enjoyed it. There was no denying that amount of focused attention from a demon was flattering, or that Crowley was attractive. Of course, vanity was a sin, and so was lust, but there was only so long you could be around humans without accepting, as Dagon had said, a little smudging of the soul in the name of your work.

Besides, it was, he told himself, the price of having Crowley in his life. Best not to think about it too much, except when he was alone and couldn’t _help_ it, because of course these corporeal forms had their own needs.

Now it was vital to think about it. And more importantly—the surprisingly tender yellow eyes fixed on him, a gentle hand, a promise to stand by his side, a thousand tiny, half-shamefaced kindnesses, a kind of desperate need to please under the snarkiness, and then his face lighting up like a star when he did give pleasure. Always turning up like a bad penny, and with more and more flimsy excuses, until there was no attempt to make excuses at all. Always there when needed. Flashes of love. _Anywhere you want to go._ And then, _Let’s run away together._ Eager, burning urgency.

Music. Music would help. Aziraphale preferred to change records manually, liked the tactileness of it, the way it was far, far away from the echoing, constantly resounding, uncontrollable music of the Spheres. His gramophone played exactly what he decided it would play, purchased with real money and put there with his own two hands, setting the needle in place. Right now, what he wanted was some Glinka. He set the needle to the right track, and Ruslan began to lament his despair over battle and the terrible waste of life.

Aziraphale wasn’t _stupid._ He’d seen Michael’s cool, smug expression as she poured out eternal death. Removing a threat to Heaven. Some ridiculous part of him had hoped that she had chosen to work with the demons so that she didn’t have to see his own execution, she’d always been so _kind_ to him, but he knew she hadn’t intervened, either. She may have loved Aziraphale, as she loved all angels, but she had been willing to kill him.

Prince of Mercy. And Uriel was Prince of Redemption. Sometimes the Almighty really was ineffable. Not as ineffable as making Sandalphon the Prince of Music and Intercessory Prayer, he supposed, although the Almighty had, forgive Aziraphale for the blasphemous thought, appalling taste in music. It was something only humans really understood.

He was letting himself get distracted because he was afraid and confused, he realised, forcing his thoughts back on track. didn’t know the stakes, he realised. But he also realised, he had already decided, the moment Uriel had made it a question about whether Crowley was capable of love.

Because if he wasn’t, Aziraphale might as well step into the hellfire right now for all he cared. A world in which he couldn’t believe that Crowley might, at least a bit, have a smidgen of love for him was not worth living in, because he had been head over heels in love with the demon at least since the end of Kukkutarma, since the soothing babble and cold arms around him and surprisingly hot lips on the skin of his shoulder. Pushing Crawly—Crowley--away at that moment had been one of the hardest things he had ever done and sometimes, in the dark of his own thoughts, he still regretted it.

The door jangled again, and the spoiled egg miasma of sulphur floated back into the room. Aziraphale looked up at Dagon.

“I’m sorry, can I help you further?"

“Can you help?” Dagon mimicked his tone. “You can do nothing to help _me_. But I can help you, if you like. For old time’s sake. And in gratitude for all the lovely, lovely paperwork.” They rubbed their hands together.

“Am I supposed to trust a demon?"

“Of course not. That would be stupid. But you have a record of being stupid that way, haven’t you?” Dagon seemed to be amused. “Listen. Don’t trust the angels. Sign no contracts. If Crowley asks, tell him the same. But most of all, remember this."

Dagon leaned down, and hissed in Aziraphale’s ear, “Do not let the worm confuse lust for love, or he’s doomed for good, and so are you.” They straightened. “I mean, he’s doomed for good anyway,” Dagon said more loudly and more cheerfully. "Our side wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise. But you can’t say I didn’t play fair by you, old friend."

They disappeared in a cloud of foul smelling yellow smoke. Demons. Always so dramatic.

On the recording, Rusland had remembered his Lyudmila, and his voice rose in appeal to the God of Love.

* * *

Everything seemed less daunting at dinner. Crowley’s mobile face was showing happiness and pleasure, and affection. It had to be affection. Nothing leering, nothing to set off warning bells. Just a soft glow. That was love, wasn’t it?

Was it _enough_ love?

Aziraphale really had no idea how to go about eliciting proof of affection. Divine ecstasy, yes. Sympathy, of course. Impersonal love for all of creation, like breathing. Seduction was straightforward, he’d been around humans long enough to know how it worked, but by the nature of it could lead to _confusion_ , so to speak, the same confusion that Aziraphale could feel at the brush of a hip against his hand, a dark tone of voice, a face watching him far too intently.

Crowley had eased off on all the physical temptations many centuries ago and that, Aziraphale told himself, was certainly for the best and a sign of growing respect for their companionship, and not at all to be missed. It never really went further than an occasional flirtatious look, these days; the times when Crowley would openly sit at between his feet and wind his arms around his waist with clear implication were literally millennia ago. It had been rather fun, back in the day. But it had been _wrong._ He had been naive in those days, not really understanding how easily humans could doom themselves with their corporeal forms. And, right now, temptation could be dangerous.

The more recent lack of physical demonstration could prove, however, to be a disadvantage, when it was so terribly, terribly important to be sure Crowley loved him.

Small steps first. He placed his hand on the table between them. Surely, surely that was a clear invitation to intimacy. But Crowley just gaped at it, as if wondering what it was and why it was there.

Embarrassed, Aziraphale started to withdraw his hand, when a cool hand suddenly covered it. Almost _grabbing_ , as if scared to lose it. Crowley’s fingers coiled over his, snake like, and Aziraphale could have wept with relief. He blushed, instead, curling his thumb against Crowley’s hand.

Demons couldn’t detect love from others, could they? Or could they? They were of angelic stock, no matter how much the clamour of Hell had confused their senses. If Aziraphale loved _enough_ … Maybe?

Crowley’s fingertips were moving so faintly on his that Aziraphale was almost sure it was instinctive and unintentional. Tiny, cherishing little caresses, fainter than breath. He _felt_ loved. It had to be love, surely. Aziraphale talked of music and books and thought of happiness, and hope, and sudden confidence he could face down any angel at all.

They would bring each other home safe. He was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The fragments left of the Apocryphal prophecy _Apocalypse of Peter_ goes into horrendous detail about all the things Uriel is going to do to sinners—then, unexpectedly, says that even sinners will be eventually delivered from the fire by the prayers of the righteous anyway, but they’re not to know that in case they decide sin is worth its temporary wages. Aziraphale would certainly have it in his collection.
> 
> 2) Mikhael Glinka’s opera _Ruslan and Lyudmila_ , based on the poem Pushkin. Aziraphale is listening to Ruslan’s aria from Act II.
> 
> 3) Speaking of which, this was delayed because I decided it was _absolutely necessary_ to make and post a [Spotify playlist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994833) of all the music Crowley and Aziraphale listen to in my stories.
> 
> 4) May miss an update this weekend as I’m DMing tomorrow and haven’t prepared yet. Also I actually slept properly last night, so there was no frantic insomniac writing. Love to you all, thank you for the support, and see you soon! 


	14. Winging on a prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make no deals with angels.

####  London, Four Days Ago

Aziraphale felt like he was floating in a bubble of confident happiness throughout dinner. He didn’t really realise how tremulous and thin the film of it was until Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets as they made their way out. Well. They had held hands for the last half hour. That was enough of a break from tradition for now. Still, during the silent car right home, the bubble was beginning to feel downright fragile. Possibly Crowley regretted the unusual sign of sentiment, now he had sobered up to drive.

Until Crowley pushed _hard_ for a date the next night, and for a moment felt like the bubble was made of some kind of inpermeable forcefield.

Then Crowley suddenly leaned across the car and kissed him. Aziraphale didn’t have time to react, far less respond. It was only a brief kiss, but impossible to mistake as a comradely gesture. It was a purposeful, possessive kiss, hand at the back of Aziraphale’s neck as the demon pushed his lips apart and swiped a reptilian tongue against his just once before withdrawing, as if to judge his reaction.

Aziraphale’s heart hammered as if he actually was capable of having heart problems and the blood pounded in his ears and all he could think was no, no, not _now._ Dagon’s warnings hammered in his head. They had been doing so well, so much chaste tender affection, and now Crowley was looking at him with unmistakable fire as if their closeness had just been a step on the way to bed—and it wasn’t as if he didn’t _want_ to lean back into the kiss and see what happened, but—

“I thought,” the angel said slowly, “that after all we have just been through, you would have given up on all this tempting nonsense. Are you really still trying to earn points with Hell?"

He saw something like panic on Crowley’s face, and panicked himself, heading for the bookshop as fast as he could.

Once inside he leaned against the door, shaking. He had been cruel, he knew, when Crowley was cut loose from his own side. Why couldn’t Crowley _understand_? Take it slow, focus on love and not on pushing and tempting and seducing? Of course he couldn’t tell him why it was so important, but even so.

“Well, you handled that badly,” said a dry voice.

“You speak my mind, Michael,” Aziraphale sighed. He turned unwillingly, remembering the last time he had seen her, she had just tried to kill him—Crowley. Which was perhaps worse, although she wouldn’t see it that way. “Is all of Heaven going to visit my humble little shop today?”

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” she said, which was so unexpected that he found himself gaping at her like a fish. She wove elegant fingers together and said, “I haven’t been a very good supervisor to you. Leaving you down here all alone, and not realising that you would be lonely away from Grace. Then, I didn’t oppose your execution, even though I knew I had failed you, we all had. I was too willing to believe you betrayed Heaven."

“Well, to be fair, I suppose I did,” he said, cautiously edging in and toward the kitchenette. He wasn’t sure he could cope with this right now. “Would you like a drink? Gin? Tea?"

“No, thank you. I meant that I thought you were conspiring for Hell’s victory over Heaven,” she clarified.

Hurt welled up, all the angry hurt that they could ever have believed that of him. Worse that they could believe that than that they would extinguish his existence. “I didn’t want another war, Michael. The last one was bad enough. And this one would have had no surrender."

“And you might have fought the demon Crowley."

“I would not have fought him. I am, I suppose, a traitor after all."

“Would he have fought you?” she asked, thoughtfully. “Oh, I know what you will answer. In a way, I suppose that is what we are here to find out for sure. Don’t mistake me for having any fondness for your murderous little serpent friend, but we can’t really afford to underestimate the importance of this. If even one of our Fallen can Rise again—well.” She smiled with sudden brilliance. “Heaven has seemed a little empty for the last few thousand years. We’ve never even considered the possibility before."

Aziraphale stared blankly at Michael. “So you’re here to tell me terms?"

She raised an eyebrow. “No. Of course not. I’m here to give you a warning.” She leaned forward, holding him in her piercing gaze. “Leave the deal making between us and Hell. Do _not_ make any kind of agreement or sign any contract, except to keep this a secret from the demon Crowley. No deals, Aziraphale. Stay evasive, if you can, and I have the bitter knowledge that you are good at that. You know as well as I do that some of Heaven and Hell are still _very angry_.”

He remembered Dagon’s warning with an icy shock. _Don’t trust the angels. Sign no contracts._ “So what do I do?” he faltered.

Michael smiled, as if satisfied with his wibbling as an answer. “Just what you always do. Resume your duties. Spread guidance and goodness and comfort. Be an angel. Let the demon Crowley make his own choices, under the good influence of your love. There’s no rush—unless you agree to something you shouldn’t.

“And keep your wings clean. Heaven is not the only one with stakes in this matter."

A chime, a rush of light, and she was gone.

* * *

####  London, Three Days Ago

The wine bar date had been almost an unmitigated disaster.

Aziraphale hadn’t been able not to respond to the barely repressed grief and desperation of that boy. It hadn’t been hard, really, to figure out that the human's mother still loved him and wanted in her heart to apologise for rejecting him and his choices, she just needed a little _push_. He hoped it worked, he hoped the suggestion he sent was just enough of a miracle to make her pick up the phone, although of course you had to leave it up to the humans themselves, free will and all that. That was the rub. In any case, the boy had seemed much comforted by some avuncular encouragement and just a touch of divine blessing to warm his heart. Aziraphale _loved_ his job.

He really should have thought more about how sensitive and highly strung Crowley could be, and that he might be offended to find his companion with his hand tucked over that of a beautiful young sex worker, but _really_? Aziraphale couldn’t help being offended, and then he had tried to provoke Crowley into some kind of statement of love, and it had all gotten worse—

—and Crowley had still asked to hold hands back to the car. Awkwardly, fumingly, blushingly, his hand stuck out like a reluctant child. How could anyone not dote on him when his moods took him like that?

Aziraphale was confused and hopeful and, really, it was all very well for Michael to say she didn’t want him to change anything he did, but how could he not? Any more than he could help analysing every little thing Crowley said or did for signs of love. _Enough_ love. Enough to satisfy Heaven and Hell. How much even was that?

If only Aziraphale could say why he was behaving so oddly. Really this was some kind of torture, to have to expect so desperately much of Crowley and not say what. No wonder the demon seemed bewildered at his changes in temperament.

Music. Music could speak for Aziraphale. The universal language. As languages went, he also knew Crowley’s modern Italian was good, better than his, really.

And then their hands were clasped together and Crowley’s head was on his shoulder and he was saying too much, surely too much, but he hadn’t mentioned Uriel or Dagon, had he? Surely he was still in the clear. Surely… surely Crowley could feel his love, would understand, would finally know what he was asking even though he couldn’t ask directly, for fear of breaking rules he didn’t even really understand.

> Now that I have seen you, all of my lovely dreaming,   
> All of the sweetest dreams I've dreamt, quickly have slipped away.  
> This theft does not upset me, because such treasures  
> Mean nothing now that I'm rich with sweet hope

_Listen_ , he willed, kissing the top of Crowley’s head very gently. Listen, and understand, my sweetest of hopes, even if I can’t say it. Please just say it. Please offer what I need so very badly. Give me some clear words of love.

The worst, the absolute worst of it, was that they were cuddled chastely together, and Aziraphale could still feel temptation twisting inside him like a dark serpent. It would be easy, so very very easy, to reach up and tilt the face pressed against his shoulder up to meet his, lower his friend back onto the couch and let what would happen, happen. He could imagine all too clearly muscular arms snaking up around his neck, lean legs parting to tangle with his, that demonic tongue pushing wantonly back against his. He knew Crowley would seize the chance if Aziraphale took the initiative just once, and there would be no going back. Why were love and lust so closely intertwined? Why place temptation nearby, with a big flashing sign?

“Why not put it on top of a mountain, or somewhere far off?"

Crowley, bless—curse—oh, just _adore_ him, seemed to be drifting off to sleep. So endearing, the very human way he just fell asleep like that. Better to leave him, to go home and think things over well away from the distraction that this corporeal form seemed determined to provide.

In the morning, Aziraphale probably should find a discreet way to warn Crowley not to take any contracts or deals, without actually giving away to him anything he shouldn't. Not that it would be necessary. Crowley knew all about the dangers of celestial contracts, he had his chains to remind him.

Aziraphale had no way of knowing that Crowley, snuggled peacefully beside him, was already silently lifting up his prayer to the Heavens, and offering his own terms.

And Heaven was listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) “I’m not going to update today.” 3am—oh, whatever. I’m addicted.
> 
> 2) _Che Galida Manina,_ again, obviously.
> 
> 3) Last of the flashbacks. Now we know what Aziraphale was playing at early on, we’re back to the present day next chapter. Can’t wait.


	15. Bring on the games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley was sick and tired of playing silly buggers with Heaven and Hell. But if he was going to play it, he was going to play it to win.

#### London, Present Day

Some habits had become worked his way into the human-like neurological connections of this human-like brain over the millennia, and one of them was the habit of what to do when he was feeling lost and alone.Crowley picked up his phone, and his thumb moved automatically to his contacts. _Work—Aziraphale._

Then it paused.

Now, that was a thing. Why would the seraph Botis have Aziraphale’s name listed at all, let alone under _work_? Why would he have a collection of lush houseplants, a garbage disposal just the right size for the execution of any stragglers, a collection of credit cards in the name of Anthony J. Crowley, and a lovingly maintained Bentley?

He was unFallen. There was no doubt of that. So shouldn’t he _feel_ different? And the former Archangel Gabriel was Fallen. That, too, was clear. There was no way Asmodeus was faking it, he had the same sheer glee in unpleasantness as Hastur, only he was far better groomed.

If Crowley—Botis—was a seraph, he had to power to go to Heaven and, well, _ask_ what he was doing on Earth. The problem was that fear and revulsion still clenched Crowley's stomach at the idea of going back there. Kerubiel. There was no way a Cherub would take the calls of a demon, but Asmodeus had known his weak spot right enough. Crowley was shit-scared of Kerubiel. He had always disliked thunder and lightning, and every time Kerubiel blinked he thought he would be fried. “Hey, Kerubiel, it’s me. I see to remember betraying you and Falling, but I seem to be a seraph now with no memories. How about that?"

Not happening.

Crowley closed his eyes, leaning his cheek against the soothingly cool glass surface of his phone. He was feeling--

—angry. Really angry. Really, really fucking angry. Now the initial panic and feeling of being caught had subsided, rage was welling up with all the fire and brimstone he usually kept suppressed on the grounds that it literally wasn't cool. How _dare_ Gabriel or Asmodeus or whoever he was play games with him like that? How dare he play games like that with _Aziraphale_? No one messed with Aziraphale, not anymore. Crowley hadn’t defied Satan himself so that they, whoever _they_ were, could treat Aziraphale like a plaything.

Demonic contracts. He’d give Asmodeus demonic contracts. Crowley wasn’t Dagon’s underling for nothing. Paperwork was an art he had been practicing for subterfuge, corruption and advantage for centuries. Go on, send him the paperwork. He would add so many modifications and clauses that it would make Asmodeus’ head spin like he was being exorcised. And oh, Crowley could keep paperwork going back and forth for a very, very, very long time without signing anything. The trick, he bitterly knew from his first mistake, back before paperwork was a thing, was to eternally postpone signing.

He had managed to keep Aziraphale’s bookshop away from forcible acquisition for half a century without Aziraphale needing to waste a frivolous miracle or Crowley having to kill anyone. When you could deal with human lawyers paid by the Mob, then contracts with Hell were _nothing._

Crowley was sick and tired of playing silly buggers with Heaven and Hell. But if he was going to play it, he was going to play it to win.

The scorecard was Aziraphale’s heart? Oh, that was offensive. That was offensive enough that it was actually hard to hold a human form when his teeth felt like they should be dripping venom. But it was also really, really stupid to do at this point. Maybe a few days ago it might have intimidated him. Maybe with _I don’t even like you_ and _It’s over_ and the heartbreaking finality of _I forgive you_ ringing in his head.

Not after all the hand holding. Not after the way Aziraphale had looked at him back in the flat, with all the sadness and longing in the world. Not after the secret kiss on top of his head. Maybe Aziraphale didn’t want to be his _lover_ yet, maybe he even thought he was Asmodeus’ lover, but Crowley already had his heart. He had already won the game, such as it was. He had to hang onto that confidence.

Crowley didn’t fool himself that he was particularly loveable. But if he wasn’t more loveable to Aziraphale than a demon version of Gabriel, then he might as well take a shower in holy water right now. And he never had been a defeatist.

Time to win his best friend back.

* * *

"Yeah, yeah. Anemones, tulips and dahlias. Yes, I’m sure. No, I don’t give a damn if they’re in season or not. Well, _make_ them look tasteful, or I’ll rain the wrath of He-He—Heaven down on you. You’re the bloody florist, not me.” Crowley tried to curb his temper. Why were humans so ornery? Still, they had their own magic key. “Look, do the words ‘cost no object’ mean anything to you? Good. Oh—all right, tomorrow. Today, then… You have sunflowers? I’ll pick them up.” Sunflowers would work, he supposed. _Adoring admiration_ , turning his head to watch the sun...

And then tomorrow. He was particularly proud of the anemones. _Expectation_ in itself was sexy, and then hopefully _protection from evil_ would also register subconsciously as _ditch Asmodeus._ They certainly wouldn’t have been tactful flowers to send Aziraphale a few days ago. Could he rely on Aziraphale to understand the language of flowers? Of course he could. It was in _books._

Crowley glanced at his phone before putting it away, and was disconcerted to see, just for a moment, that his hair in it looked black. He even checked a mirror. Still shining auburn. Just a trick of the light.

The blue Aston Martin was parked outside the bookshop. Fine. He wasn’t particularly intimidated, and he was going to show it. He flounced in, legs feeling even less under control than usual but leading from the hips and shoulders, and tossed a bunch of sunflowers at Aziraphale, who was behind the desk. “Catch!"

Aziraphale managed just in time, which was good, because when Crowley stopped to think about it he wan’t sure that getting pollen on the books stacked around the counter would have counted in his favour.

“More vegetation?” No glad flash of recognition this time, which was disappointing, but there was a small, shy smile on Aziraphale’s face, which was good enough.

“I’ll keep going until you tell me to stop.” Crowley tasted the air for brimstone, and found it to the East. All right. Asmodeus was in the back room. Probably in _his chair_ , because that would be like him. Crowley wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing that. He miracled up a vase to prevent Aziraphale going into the back room to get one.

“Any problems, Anthony? Do you need me to shut the shop?” Aziraphale said, eyeing his few customers in clear hope of an excuse to eject them.

“Nah, don’t mind me. Your customers are important,” Crowley said cruelly. He grabbed a book at random and curled up on a yellow occasional chair that mysteriously didn’t have any books on it. It turned out to be _Biggles Sweeps the Desert_ , which was possibly not the most dignified of reading matter. It wasn’t as if he was intending to read it anyway. Besides, he had spent a lot of time in deserts with Aziraphale, one way or another. Perhaps any little memory jiggle could help. Also—another point. If Crowley’s memories of the last few years were wrong, why would Aziraphale’s books shop currently be stocked with children’s fiction?

Aziraphale nodded and sat behind the counter. From where Crowley was sitting, he could see that even Aziraphale’s baggy trousers pulled a little taut against generous thighs when he sat, and why had Crowley ever let hose for men ever go out of fashion? Crowley had worked _hard_ at making short doublets and tight hose fashionable, and it had absolutely been in the name of raising the general amount of temptation around and not just because Aziraphale had luxuriant calves that the Almighty had clearly designed to be shown off in clinging fabric.

Okay. Probably not the time for impure thoughts. He was here to observe, and in general, not just Aziraphale’s legs. They really were nice, though.

At that exact moment Aziraphale looked up at him, and Crowley had to choose between looking away guiltily, pretending nonchalance, or an evil grin. Well, he was still a demon at heart. He chose the third option.

Aziraphale blushed and looked away, but there was definitely a small smile at the corner of his lips. So, even with Asmodeus around, he liked the attention.

Oh, fuck, _concentrate_. Hadn’t he learned anything over the last few days, let alone the last sixty centuries? Love, not lust, was how to get to Aziraphale.

“Hey, angel?"

“Hmm?” He was still a little pink, eyes shining behind spectacles.

“Turn your angelic senses on high."

Aziraphale blinked at him.

“Look, I know you have them dampened because there are too many humans around. Forget that."

“All right,” Aziraphale said a bit nervously. “Why--"

Aziraphale, admitting to giving his sword away. Aziraphale, picking up a wounded snake in the desert. Aziraphale, teaching him to write. Aziraphale, risking who knew what to save a slave girl and her son in the desert. Aziraphale blazing with anger and pain over the first born of Egypt. And Aziraphale’s smiles, his glowing looks, his pouts, his gratitude, his growing struggle to distance himself from a demon and his complete inability to do so, Aziraphale taking so much unabashed pleasure in all the pleasures of life, Aziraphale bent studiously over his books, Aziraphale getting thoroughly sloshed on the best wine, Aziraphale gentle and courteous and cattish and snappy and hypocritical and everlastingly kind...

Aziraphale shut his eyes in a kind of self defence as the sheer magnitude of centuries of love crashed over him.

“But… why?” he said feebly. “Oh, my dear, let me turn it down a bit, I’m afraid I feel a bit faint.” He leaned back in his chair.

“Sorry,” said Crowley, not sorry at all. “Thought it was time you knew how much I love you." By all eternity, it felt good to say that. Like mercury pouring through his veins, shining and dangerous.

“But _why_?"

That hurt, and hurt a lot, but Crowley was prepared for it. “You’ll remember. I know it’s in there somewhere."

“So Botis confesses love at last,” said a golden toned American voice. “May wonders never cease. But, you know, it’s not as easy as that. The project was to see if a _demon_ could be capable of love, and you, my friend, are an angel. So no cigar.”

“ _What_ project?” Crowley snapped, as Aziraphale turned confused eyes to Asmodeus.

“Nothing you need to know about.” Asmodeus grinned at him, wrapping a possessive arm around a bewildered Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Besides, the terms changed, as soon as you spontaneously offered a deal to Heaven. Sandalphon could hardly believe what he was hearing. No wonder he came to me for advice. I mean, Michael is a bit erratic these days, and Uriel is far too cozy with Dagon."

“What?” Aziraphale seemed as confused by this as Crowley. “Why would an archangel go to you for advice?” Asmodeus shushed him and kissed the top of his head, making Crowley’s eye teeth hurt.

“Seems you were pretty sure that Aziraphale didn’t need a demon’s love, _Anthony_. Possibly a wrong call.” Aziraphale blushed.

“And what did _you_ need?” Crowley spat. “Don’t tell me you needed Aziraphale."

Asmodeus clicked his fingers, and the world froze around them. Even Aziraphale.

"Oh, no. I needed revenge. Unfortunately, revenge is not a very angelic impulse, but after Uriel agreed to your redemption and the terms, my old friend Lucifer was only too willing to welcome me with willing arms. Soul for soul, Risen for Fallen."

“You would Fall over _us_?"

“Don’t flatter yourself. I Fell because I spent six thousand fucking years preparing for a War only to have the Almighty laugh in my face. Figuratively speaking, because She didn’t even have the courtesy to speak to us directly about it. And Michael and the Metatron were all just, oh, maybe it’s for the best, trust in Her. I am so sick of this shit, I can’t even tell you.

“You know, Crowley, I should have listened when you tried to tempt me to Fall. It _is_ more fun not having to be loyal to a Creator who likes humans better than her strongest creations."

Crowley closed his eyes to concentrate better. Both Asmodeus’ smirk and Aziraphale’s frozen, worried face were distracting him. “Terms?"

Asmodeus’ lips twisted in mockery. “ _Whatever he needs me to become, I’ll become, if you help me. It’s not fun being a temptation anymore._ Pretty clear, we thought. You were so sure he didn’t need a demon. He needed someone… repented.

“Congratulations. You’re the first unFallen angel in history. You have the chance to win Aziraphale’s heart without any of the un-fun history of trying to tempt him. You can have a _purely chaste_ love affair, just like you were so sure he needed. We even let you keep the car."

“I didn’t want him to forget me!"

“You should have specified. After all, the suggestion was that being a temptation to him was a problem, so all the history of temptation had to be removed so you could try for pure, innocent love.” Asmodeus smiled suddenly, sharply. “Of course, there was a different way around that. Sandalphon pushed for it, in fact, at least partly because he thought you’d make a pathetic angel—which you do. The option is still there, if you find it. And I’ll tell you something else—it’s probably the option that will leave your precious angel happiest. But how much are you _really_ willing to sacrifice for him? Oh, boys. Your punishment is just beginning. You really should have thought harder before fucking with the archangel Gabriel."

His fingers snapped again.

“Come on, my angel,” Asmodeus said. “you promised me lunch. And I think we need to talk."

“Yes—yes, of course we do.” Flustered and troubled, Aziraphale turned to usher some surprised humans out of the shop. “Anthony—"

“I’m going,” Crowley said, and then glaring defiantly at Asmodeus, dropped a kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. Asmodeus just smirked smugly back at him.

“Expect the paperwork in the mail."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Hey, all. Sorry for the late update and late responses to comments. Migraine again, and I just basically slept my way through it. Thank you for sticking with me.


	16. Snakes and hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Crowley and Aziraphale need to remember, and fast.

Crowley really, really wanted a chat with Dagon. This was not something that he had often felt in the last sixty centuries. He tended to avoid his superiors except when he was pretty sure a commendation was on the way. But he needed an expert in celestial contract law, and Dagon was the best he knew.

Unfortunately, Dagon was presumably on Asmodeus’ side now. Crowley had to be his own expert.

Crowley had obediently left the bookshop on Aziraphale’s request. Fifteen minutes later, he headed back in, the doors unlocking at his gesture. Demons couldn’t enter angelic ground without permission. Apparently his snowy white wings were enough to change the rules. It probably didn’t occur to whoever drew up the rules of contact that angels would even want to break into each other’s property. More fool them.

It all depended on how much Adam had changed the bookshop’s collection. Aziraphale had seemed quite content with the changes to his stock, the dear old chap, once he’d looked them up in the price guide. What had he said? _Whoo-ee._ He would, too, head firmly lodged back in-- No. That was wrong. Aziraphale didn’t care what his books were worth, their value just made it more difficult to keep track of the tax and insurance, and he detested paperwork. It wasn't like he ever let anyone buy them anyway. Crowley’s head was hurting.

He had to concentrate. The entire bookshop couldn’t be children’s books. Aziraphale would have broken his heart. He _specialised._ Books of prophecy, Bible misprints, Apocrypha. Angelology and demonology, Crowley was pretty sure. Aziraphale’s sense of humour wouldn’t be able to resist it. There had to be _something_ on supernatural contracts there.

Two hours of reading later, Crowley's head was aching. Plenty of stories of getting out of _demonic_ contracts, although he doubted any of them were true, not if Dagon had penned the contracts. In any case, they generally required fasting to show self-denial, which probably didn’t count if you didn’t exactly require material sustenance in order to survive, and intercessional prayer to retrieve the contract. Which meant appealing to Sandalphon. Crowley considered his chances of getting Sandalphon to intervene on his and Aziraphale's behalf, and groaned.

Heavenly covenants were worse. _Do not be rash with your mouth, and let not your heart utter anything hastily before God. For God is in heaven, and you on earth; therefore let your words be few. For a dream comes through much activity, and a fool’s voice is known by his many words. When you make a vow to God, do not delay to pay it; for He has no pleasure in fools. Pay what you have vowed—better not to vow than to vow and not pay._

He had uttered hastily, all right, at least in his heart. And he was pretty sure he was a fool. “So what precisely,” Crowley asked the air, “did I vow to pay?"

He needed to know the exact words. After all, in contracts, the words, as well as the intent, mattered. Had his intent had been as simple as _let me be someone Aziraphale can love_? Or even simpler, _please stop this hurting_? Somewhere, in the gap between intent and wording, was where the loophole Gabriel had exploited would be. And when there was one loophole, there would be another, for Crowley to exploit.

Asmodeus was not going to give him any clues beyond which his arrogance had already let fall. Crowley was going to have to figure this out himself. As long as Aziraphale didn’t remember him, it felt hopeless.

Crowley picked up the books to return them to their places. He really didn’t want to be here when Aziraphale and—oh, Heaven and Hell, he really didn’t want to know if Asmodeus was with Aziraphale when he returned. Some things were better unseen. One of the books slipped from his arms. The _Sepher ha Zohar_ , which he had picked up on the off chance and not got to reading. One of the many bookmarks the books were bristling with slipped out of it, and Crowley picked it up, guiltily worrying if Aziraphale would, among these thousands of books, notice a bookmark out of place. He wouldn’t put it past him.

On a scrap of paper was scribbled an English translation of a verse. _They went down to the serpent and saw the desire of the world. And his ways were swayed to this place of Malchut, which is the secret of eating of the Tree of Knowledge._ And under it, written in beautiful looping writing stylising the _C_ into a rearing snake and the tail of the _y_ into a heart, was written the name _Crowley_.

Crowley stared at it. A heart. Aziraphale, who had learned to write in cuneiform at the dawn of writing, who had mastered every form of writing humanity had created, had written _his_ name with a heart at the end, like a schoolgirl with a crush. Crowley drew his hand down the bookmark. It was slightly yellowed and crackled under his fingers. How many years ago had Aziraphale found a damning reference to his Adversary in a Gnostic text, and drawn a _heart_ with his name, and used it as a bookmark? The idiot. The complete, soft, adorable, loving idiot.

Tears prickled Crowley's eyes, as he swiped and pocketed the bookmark. He was going to set Aziraphale free from whatever had been done to him, and he was going to _win._ Because a love so ridiculously true still had to still exist.

* * *

The contract arrived at 12 am. Of course. Asmodeus _would_ be dramatic like that. It was a masterwork of length and misdirection and complexity, but it was no Mafia contract. Crowley read it carefully over and over, and his heart burned with fury and, even more strongly, with hope.

Asmodeus must have written it himself, and Crowley would bet eternity that he had been too arrogant to bother running it past Dagon. Dagon would never, ever be sloppy enough to make one of the markers of success something neither of them had the right to supply.

They could bet on who won Aziraphale’s heart, he supposed, repellant as the idea was. What they couldn’t bet on was his soul. Asmodeus had assumed that if Aziraphale could fall in love with a demon, then Falling would be the natural consequence and punishment. And Falling really would be a punishment to a gentle, loving soul like Aziraphale, no matter how many tiny inconsequential sins he committed.

Crowley thought of Aziraphale’s pure white wings and clear eyes and the name of a demon written with a heart, Aziraphale who had faced every injustice of Heaven and kept his faith in the Almighty’s love, and smiled like a demon or an angel. Perhaps demons and angels weren’t so unalike, after all. Neither could dent Aziraphale’s essential goodness, no matter what tricks they played.

It was 4 am, according to Crowley’s beloved watch. A completely uncivilised time to make a phone call. On the other hand, Aziraphale didn’t sleep.

“Hello?” Aziraphale’s voice held the wariness that suggested he was trying to decide if the early morning phone call was from was an international dealer willing to part with a book he was searching for and therefore to be treated with sweetness and light, or an international dealer rashly trying to acquire one of Aziraphale’s treasures and to be dispensed with brusquely. Crowley had tried to convince him to upgrade to something with caller ID, but it had been hard enough to convince him to put in a telephone with an integrated transmitter and receiver in the handpiece.

“Hello, angel."

“Anthony.” Aziraphale’s voice was unreadable.

“Aziraphale, does the name Crowley mean anything to you?"

There was an intake of breath, and then a long silence. Crowley waited.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said uncertainly. “There was the human Thelemic prophet, wrote some very entertaining books, but—that’s not what you mean, is it?"

“No. It’s all right,” Crowley said gently, fingering the scrap of paper in his pocket. He would take uncertainty. Anything but complete denial. “Aziraphale, you know that I love you with all my heart.” So easy to say. No matter how tricked and tortured he felt, at least the vanishing of his chains had given him that.

“I do,” Aziraphale said unsteadily. “I just don’t understand it. We only spoke once, thousands of years ago. How could you _possibly_ feel like that about me?"

“If you don’t think anyone can fall in love with you in one conversation, then you seriously underestimate how loveable you are. But it’s not just that."

“Asmodeus says you've gone insane and spent the last six thousand years spying on and obsessing over me, that you’re inches away from doing something terrible that will make you Fall, and I’m in immediate danger. He wanted to stay the night to protect me."

 _Fuck._ Crowley immediately abandoned his half-formed plans to barrage Aziraphale with his knowledge about his life on Earth to prove they had shared it.

“All right. Fair enough, I’m not much of an angel these days, and it’s probably not going to take much to make me Fall. But do you feel in your heart that I mean you any harm?"

“No. No, I don’t. I can’t imagine you feeling like _that_ and harming me."

Crowley’s heart leapt. “You sent Asmodeus home?” he asked hopefully.

“I needed to think. And read.” True to his ruling spirit. Relief cascaded through Crowley.

“Aziraphale, who is your main supervisor?” He was sure it had been Gabriel.

“Michael."

Michael. Oh, no. The Archangel Michael was intimidating in a completely different way to Kerubiel. Less gigantic, bristling with power and blazing with storms than a cherub, but she was the First and Eldest and Father of Angels, and Crowley had always felt cowed by her ancientness and her cool self-possession. Not only was all the iconography of her treading on serpents a bit alarmingly personal, but Crowley always had an irrational fear that if she scolded him, he would humiliate himself by calling her Mummy. Better to face Satan.

Well, he had decided he would dare anything for Aziraphale. Time to prove it. And after all, who needed Dagon, when he could have the most clever being he had ever met by his side?

“Angel, I have something to show you. And then, I think we need to take a trip together.” He swallowed hard. “To Heaven."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Ecclesiastes 5:2-5.
> 
> 2) I took a brief detour into PWP fluff, but this story is my _obsession_. Seriously, I think about it all the time, which is why I am updating at midnight, so I can get some sleep. Thank you so much for staying with me so far. I can’t believe how much engagement, love and support you have all shown.


	17. Cross-referencing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale was intelligent. it was an angelic intelligence which, while not being particularly higher than human intelligence, is much broader and has the advantage of having thousands of years of practice.

“It’s my writing, yes. But I don’t recall it.” Aziraphale stared at the scrap of paper. “Hearts? That doesn’t seem very like me.” He pushed his reading glasses up his nose. “ _Crowley._ "

Crowley laughed giddily. “Not the wise, worldly image you like to think you project. But I know you. There’s an inner blushing princess that emerges at every opportunity."

“That’s quite insulting,” Aziraphale said absently. He didn't seem inclined to return the bookmark. His well cared for fingers were stroking it, his brow creased.

“It’s a compliment. Don’t be sensitive about it. Of all beings, _we_ don’t have to insist on our masculinity."

“Well, no,” Aziraphale conceded, tracing the snake bewilderedly. "But I _am_ a soldier."

“Only technically. You have no taste for violence. I’m willing to bet you skived off actual action at least as much as I did."

“That’s a very odd thing for a seraph to admit to having done,” said Aziraphale, neatly dodging the implication.

“Well. About that.” Crowley took off his own glasses, and peered at Aziraphale with still unfamiliar feeling eyes. “Look, doesn’t this note convey _anything_ to you at all? Prod any memories?"

“It’s a reference to the Serpent in the Garden. Asmodeus,” Aziraphale said, at the exact same time that Crowley said, “Crawly.” And then added, “Or Anthony J. Crowley. _Me_."

Aziraphale looked blankly at him, as if at a loss for coherent thought. “What does the J stand for?"

“Is that really all you have to say?"

“I don’t know what you expect me to say. I think Asmodeus is right and you’re possibly insane. Certainly overwrought."

“Overwrought and highly strung, that’s me,” Crowley said a bit manically. “Goes with being a serpent. Snakes are notorious for being a bit temperamental, at least when we’re not asleep. Why are we still sober? I feel like we shouldn’t be sober for this conversation.” He headed for Aziraphale’s liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle.

“Oh, that’s a really nice gin. Got dead ants bottled in it, which is a bit cruel, but your selfless love for all creatures great and small fades a bit when it comes to your earthly pleasures, doesn’t it?” He splashed generous triple measures into a glass. "Better than the rotgut we used to drink back in the day, anyway. Do you remember that? You thought going to the States was a terrible mistake, your tender morals wouldn’t let you go to speakeasies, and you had to sip dry toddies and pretend you _liked_ them. Good thing you had me handy so you could drop in and let yourself be tempted. Practically wept with relief on my shoulder at the prospect of getting plastered. If I’d had any sense I would have confessed my love then and there, while you were all sentimental at the prospect of booze, but it’s not easy when you’re a demon. There are rules."

“I did like dry toddies, but they would have been better with brandy, true. And you’re babbling.” Aziraphale frowned. “That was Asmodeus. You’re not a demon, Anthony."

“Crowley. It was _me._ I was a demon until two days ago. And he was your supervisor, the Archangel Gabriel. Drink up your gin. And think, Aziraphale. Think hard. I was so drunk in Chicago I turned into a snake and fell asleep curled up on your lap, and you stroked me when you thought I was too out of it to notice. Is that really something you can imagine Asmodeus doing, making himself that vulnerable in your presence? Aziraphale, he despises you."

Hurt flashed into Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley felt a flash of remorse, but pushed on. “It only hurts because your memories are all mixed up,” he said, very gently. “Because you are hurt at the thought of _me_ despising you.” He wanted to reach out a hand and didn’t dare. “Aziraphale, angel, you must be scared and in pain. I’m going to make those bastards pay for doing this to you. I don’t know how many of your memories are left, and I can’t imagine how it feels trying to superimpose a slimy bastard like Asmodeus onto them. I mean, I’m a nightmare, but at least I’m a different kind of nightmare.” He gulped down his gin and tried to smile. “A clingy, snappy, needy nightmare you can’t get rid of. But you know, no matter how many times you denied me, I knew you really didn’t want to get rid of me at all, you just thought you should. That’s what made everything bearable. I—oh, Heaven."

He twisted back into shape, the giant Serpent he had been in Eden, and flowed onto Aziraphale’s lap, winding his top coils around his chest. Aziraphale didn’t flinch, showed no fear, even when Crowley rested his massive head on his shoulder.

“Do you know what the next words of the _Zorah_ are?” Aziraphale asked quietly, pressing the scrap of paper out flat in his hand and staring at the red and black serpent in the name. “ _Then the serpent was drawn after Adam and his wife. It cleaved onto them with its filth._ ” Crowley shuddered. Filth. He was, after all, a demon, contaminated with the filth of Hell. Or had been. Clean wings again. But Aziraphale had never treated him as if he was filthy, as if Falling had been an abomination rather than a regrettable faux pas. “Why didn’t I copy out that part?"

Crowley stayed very still and quiet, not daring to interrupt. "I think it was because it didn’t have anything to do with the Serpent I knew. So I wrote the Serpent’s name instead, to refute it. With _love_. I can feel my own love when I touch it. I don’t feel like that about Asmodeus. He is charming and fascinating, but— _love_ him?"

“Azziriphale,” he hissed. Difficult to sound tender with a snake tongue, but he tried.

“I still don’t remember. But it does seem,” Aziraphale said with sudden crispness, “ridiculous that a Serpent should have _insect_ eyes."

“Silly misstake.” Oh, Aziraphale was so lovely and warm against his coils. He could stay there forever. Aziraphale didn’t seem inclined to cast him off, letting him remain there as if the serpentine embrace was familiar and comforting. Maybe it was, even though it had been centuries since Aziraphale had worn him like this. There had been times and places before the formal Arrangement in which it was safer to be an unattached man with even a truly alarming pet snake than one who seemed to be too close to another man or unmarried woman. The world had changed and people accepted snakes, even ones who tried to remember not to talk, less readily than in the dawn of the world. Still, Crowley remembered, and he hoped that subconsciously the angel did too. “Azziraphale. Trusst me. At leasst a little."

“I trust you,” Aziraphale said, making Crowley’s heart leap, “enough to do some work."

“Work?” His heart sank again.

“I mean reading. Cross-referencing. Calculations. I’m afraid I won’t be opening the shop this morning,” said Aziraphale, with the touch of vindictive pleasure he always showed at the thought of thwarting potential customers.

“Not at home to Asmodeus?"

“No, best not have any representatives of Hell around. Unless you, as you claim, count.” He hesitated. “You can stay, if you like. In case I have any questions you can answer. Not that I will trust you without checking, obviously."

“Obvioussly."

“This calls for cocoa."

“Can I have more gin instead?"

“Help yourself. It’s not like you didn’t, anyway. But for goodness’s sake don’t get drunk in serpent form, I can’t cope with venom dripping on my books."

Crowley reluctantly unwound himself and shimmered back into bipedal form.

He drank silently for some time. The door rattled every now and then, and the phone rang often, but the pile of books and notes in front of Aziraphale was growing, and Crowley hoped Asmodeus was discovering, as he had after some quarrels, that an annoyed angel on his own ground was impossible for a demon to reach until he chose it. Every now and then Aziraphale asked him what seemed an irrelevant or incredibly minor question, then nodded and made a note when he answered.

Crowley was, as he had admitted, overwrought, and stressed, and filled with hope, and drunk, and, eventually, bored. So he did what he did best, and sprawled over a couch and went to sleep.

When he woke up, there was music playing, beautiful and wistful, but with the volume turned down so, he suspected, as not to wake him. There were piles of books around Aziraphale, but only one on the desk. A large, singed and incredibly familiar book.

“How did you get _that_?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Well, the young lady who owned it had no real need of it after all, and she had all her notes, and she and her young man need to get set up in a new home..."

“Angel, you really have no scruples at all, do you?” Crowley grinned admiringly. “Wait—you remember the book?"

Aziraphale blinked. “Of course, dear boy. The _Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ are famous among Prophecy collectors. I mean, dealers. I’m surprised you’ve heard of it, though, it’s quite obscure."

“Wait. You don’t remember the Antichrists, either of them—"

“ _Either_ of them?"

Crowley waved dismissively. “Adam and our boy.“

“Our—what? Are you seriously telling me we had a child together?” Aziraphale stared at the notes in front of him as if they were about to catch fire.

“Godson. Whatever. Warlock. Anyway, you don’t remember the Bentley, you don’t remember the Archangel Gabriel, you don’t remember Heaven and Hell trying to execute us.” Aziraphale made a strangled sound. Oh, yeah, he’d forgotten to explain that bit. He rushed on. "You don’t remember our kid.” Aziraphale made another strangled sound. “You don’t remember _me_ , but you remember a bloody book? Wait, what am I saying? Of _course_ you remember every single book in this shop. Heaven and Hell have their limits, after all. And Gabriel wouldn’t even know to hide this particular one."

“You’re being absurd."

“Really? Then, tell me how you knew how to acquire the book. Wasn’t it your Holy Grail? How do you know the mad American and her ‘young man', do you even remember?"

Aziraphale gave him a long, blank look, then clicked his tongue, nodded sharply as if confirming something, and went back to work.

Crowley sleepily placed the music. Act III of _Swan Lake._ “You know, angel, either you’re coming around, or I think your gramophone _really_ likes me. Even though it’s casting me against type.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, dear.” The tips of Aziraphale’s ears were pink.

“Hngh.” Suddenly extremely happy, Crowley went back to sleep.

When he next woke, he was a snake again, either from some subconscious attempt to prompt Aziraphale’s memory or because he couldn’t get properly comfortable in the chair with a human-presenting spine.

Aziraphale was sitting, staring into space. Crowley slid over and reared up, checking the notes. Most were in languages he didn’t understand, with a lot of numbers. “Ssatisfied?"

“There are major discrepancies between my memories and what seems to be reality. So, I suppose I am.” Aziraphale’s voice was very calm and measured.

"Enough to come to Heaven, and ask what to do? I’ll even face Michael for you. Can’t ask for more proof of sincerity than that."

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” Aziraphale lightly scratched Crowley’s muzzle, as unselfconsciously as he had four thousand years ago.

“Terrified. I haven’t been back for six thousand years. And when I left it was—not a good memory.” He pressed his head against the comforting touch.

“Most snakes don’t like to be petted,” Aziraphale said absently. “I—"

“Read it, yeah. But you also remember that I’m not most snakes, at least when it comes to you."

“I suppose I must do.” The same thoughtful calm. “Besides.” There was a clang of steel in the melodious voice that reminded Crowley that Aziraphale was, indeed, a soldier. “It can’t hurt to _ask._ "

Crowley realised what was behind the measured voice. Fury. Absolute bloody raging angelic fury and grief, barely repressed. The repressed furious sorrow of the Ark, of the dying Indus River, of the slave and her son driven out into the desert, of Egypt, of the carpenter. If Aziraphale had been holding a sword, it would have been _blazing_.

“I think I deserve to ask. Six thousand years of loyal service. Six thousand years, and so many, many missing and changed memories, and ones that don’t make sense. I can’t even make the movements of the stars line up with my memories, let alone human history. Or _my_ history. Just how much did they take from me, when they took _you_?"

Oh, too many emotions to express, too much joy and relief and pain. Crowley tried to put them into words. “No one fucks with my angel like that and gets away with it."

“I have no idea what you’re implying. I’m just,” Aziraphale said, and the clang of steel had become an army beating on its shields, “going to ask my supervisor some polite questions."

* * *

They had been to the front entrance before, but they had always taken separate doors. Crowley couldn’t help a stab of panic. The left escalator, the sinister side, he knew what was down there, and while it wasn’t pleasant, it was familiar. Upwards, though… He had been back for the first time in millennia, and they had looked at him with small smug smiles in the dazzling light, and had tried to murder him.

Had tried to murder _Aziraphale._ Loyal, loving Aziraphale, whose worst sins were a bit of overindulgence in Earthly pleasures, too much compassion and a tendency to tell fibs.

Why was he frightened? Uriel and Sandalphon had better hope they were nowhere near Michael, or they’d find out what a revenge-bent seraph who had spent thousands of years serving Hell could do. At least Michael had only tried to kill _him_ , which was far more understandable.

A firm hand closed around his, and he looked down into round, kind eyes.

“It’s all right. I’m with you, Crowley."

Right. He had defied Hell for Aziraphale. He could face Heaven as well, with his hand in his. All he had to do was hold on tight.

They stepped on the escalator, side by side, hand in hand, and began to ascend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I meant to make it to Heaven, but they had some stuff to work out first.
> 
> 2) I _absolutely_ recommend Green Ant gin, although the squeamish sometimes get upset when insects end up in their glass.
> 
> 3) Yeah, Crowley is casting himself as Odette, despite being more Odile fashion-wise. Or Aziraphale is casting him as Odette. Or the gramophone is. Or the Almighty is. Someone or something in that bookshop is being a drama queen, anyway.


	18. Escalator to Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley isn't really a very good Seraph

The escalator rose and rose, and the air grew colder and purer. Aziraphale, carrying his own holy spirit around like a blanket, didn’t seem to feel it, as his clothes grew simpler and brighter, his faint glow increasing in luminescence, hair and eyes shining.

Crowley was miserable. The temptation to access his own holiness was strong, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. It felt like losing in a way, admitting to being Botis, embracing the white wings, committing to being more righteous. He didn’t _feel_ holy, and was determined not to, no matter how cold he was becoming. He felt thinner, darker, more shadowed as they rose, as his blood froze and slowed and he became sluggish. The light was too bright, the air cut into his lungs. He could feel his heartbeat and breathing slow. He held Aziraphale’s hand, the only source of warmth he had, and put everything he had into a defiant slouch.

They disembarked with only four flights to go, and the Angel of the Sixth Floor Elevator During the Morning Watch looked at them with baffled curiosity, a Principality holding hands with a scowling Seraph in black jeans and snakeskin shoes.

“Ah, Havani,” Aziraphale said amiably. “Good to see you again. Would you ask Michael to meet us for a quick word?” He led Crowley into the larger room, where they stood alone, surrounded by endless kilometres of glass.

The light was even brighter and colder here, illuminating all the world spread below them. Crowley had never spent much time on the sixth floor, and it had looked different then, looking down on a single garden, not this huge glittering world. It looked different from up here, both more crowded and further away, the teeming human life hardly visible. No wonder the Third Sphere seemed so distant from the humans they looked over, with only the one who walked among them for thousands of years really caring.

He felt sick and exhausted, and clung to Aziraphale’s hand.

The tighter grip made Aziraphale turn to him. “Are you all right, dear boy? You’re not, are you,” he added, a statement rather than a question.

“It’s this body,” Crowley said miserably. “Wasn’t designed for up here."

“Change, then."

“I don’t think the snake will do any better.”

“Your other form."

“I don’t think the maggots will fit in here. Anyway, I can’t seem to do them any more."

“Your _other_ other form,” Aziraphale said patiently. “Your true form."

Crowley was frankly terrified at the thought. “I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure I want to. I don’t want to remember, and I’m afraid I’ll burn you. They tried to kill you with Hellfire, Aziraphale. What if it’s a trick?"

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “I find it surprisingly easy to believe you are a demon in your heart, as it were, especially looking at you right now, but you are most definitely not one in ethereal form. I can’t be hurt by Heavenly fire. Crowley, dear boy, you’re shaking." Aziraphale said, and Crowley decided he would brave anything if Aziraphale would use his chosen name again and look at him with such worry.

He let go of Aziraphale’s hand, and let himself embrace the fire buried inside him, turning towards it. His wings unfolded, one after the other, his eyes opening on all sides, his body gratefully slipping out of the bipedal form into something more serpentine. The Seraph blazed with heat.

“It’s been a long time since I saw you like that. You look magnificent,” Aziraphale said softly, “but I think I find your other self more comfortable."

“Which one?” asked the being who was trying very hard not to think of itself as Botis. Perhaps he could glower and sprawl a bit.

“Either,” said Aziraphale, and his chuckle was warm and ordinary and suddenly everything felt easier. Crowley dared come closer, and when the licking flame didn’t hurt Aziraphale, curled around him like he had in his black and red snake form.

“You never met me like this. It’s a false memory. What could have been, if you saved me from Falling."

“I regret that I could not,” Aziraphale said sorrowfully.

“No. I don’t regret Falling. If I hadn’t Fallen, I wouldn’t have spent six thousand years enjoying Earth with you."

“Well, this is unexpected. And touching. Hello, Aziraphale. And—Botis?"

“ _Crowley._ "

“If you prefer.” Michael folded her hands neatly. “Welcome back to Heaven. How can I help you?"

“You can explain what’s fucking going on,” Crowley said, all his determination to stay calm and let Aziraphale do the talking vanishing. The fact that Michael had tried to execute Aziraphale and Aziraphale _didn’t even remember it_ , was looking at her calmly—well, she had tried to kill _Crowley_ , actually, and—the bright light was still muddling his head. How many pairs of dark glasses did he need to conjure up for this form? How would he even keep them in the right place when his eyes were floating around? “Turned up to see Aziraphale, did you?” he added bitterly. “Didn’t bother to turn up for his _frying._ "

Michael flinched slightly. He was sure of it. “That was an error."

“Agreeing to murder him, or not showing up for it?"

“I thought my biggest priority was neutralising you, Serpent,” she said, calmly.

“Good job there."

She smiled at him. She fucking smiled at him, as tenderly as a mother. Crowley’s flames licked up around him, and he hissed.

“Hush, my dear,” Aziraphale said, in a voice with steel behind its gentleness. Crowley subsided. “Michael, is there anywhere we can sit? I feel like I am delivering a report right now, and that’s not what I came for. I’m afraid I’ve become accustomed over the millennia to human luxuries like chairs. And, if you would be so kind, tea. I find material comforts helpful in establishing the right atmosphere for a chat."

That gentle smile still on her face, Michael gestured, and a silvery blue couch and armchair materialised, a glass table between, with a steaming teapot and three cups. She gracefully lowered herself into the chair, and Aziraphale, less graceful but hampered a bit by a serpentine Seraph still wound determinedly around him, took the couch. He was quiet while he poured two cups of tea, but it was the quietness of a coiled spring. The spout hovered over the third cup.

“Crowley?"

“Not in this form, thanks.” He focused on glaring at the Archangel.

Aziraphale set down the teapot. “Now, Michael, as my friend here requested, please tell us what is fucking going on.” He lifted his cup and inhaled the scent pleasurably.

She sighed, for the second time showing some discomfort. “I warned you not to make any contracts, or let the demon do so. Once he did, it was out of my hands. Besides, it is a success, is it not?” She smiled at Crowley again, her smile maternal and loving. “Welcome back to the fold, Serpent. There will be much rejoicing at the first of the Rebels returned to us, once we deal with our recent loss."

Crowley hissed again. “I never agreed to change Aziraphale’s memories of me and the Apocalypse. I _couldn’t_. Hell wouldn’t make a contractual mistake like that, I can’t sign away what doesn’t belong to me. The whole thing is invalid, and I swear I will burn the place down if the contract isn't broken. Hellfire and holy water won’t hurt either of us, you’re fucked. I’ll destroy every one of you if I have to in order to save him."

“Hush, dear. You’re not helping.” Aziraphale looked, Crowley thought, like he was repressing a fluttery smile. Rescue fetish. He hated Asmodeus being right. He still felt his heart melt a little.

“Aziraphale’s memories are changed?” Michael raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t _know_?”

“Crowley, much as it gladdens my heart to have you back in Heaven,” she said, with a little iciness, “we just lost one of our Choir’s most valued and beloved generals for reasons we cannot understand, and I have had other things on my mind than you two. The paperwork alone..."

“Give him back his memories."

“I never took them.” She sipped her tea. “Aziraphale, are you sure you didn’t agree to this?"

“I can hardly remember, can I?” he asked, plaintive.

Michael sighed and pressed her fingertips together. “Germain, would you please ask the Metatron for all current heavenly contracts regarding the beings Aziraphale and Botis?” She spread her hands and a tablet appeared. “Thank you, and please convey my gratitude to the Metatron.” She blew on the tablet, and placed it down on the table.

For a panicked moment, Crowley thought it would be _the_ Contract, the one detailing what he had done for Hell and his place in the Infernal regime guaranteed as a result. He didn’t want Aziraphale to see that, an Aziraphale who had no tender memories of him to balance his early Betrayal out. But there was only a single promise.

_Please just grant me this one thing, Lord. Just let me be able to be what he needs. Whatever he needs me to become, I’ll become, if You help me. It’s not fun being a temptation anymore. Please. I’ll repent of anything You like._

And below it, signed with a sigil like a shining moth, was the word _Done._

“That’s interesting,” Michael said mildly. “Prayers, covenants and redemption aren’t usually Gabriel’s department.” Pain flickered over her face. “Or weren’t."

“This is a completely _incompetent_ prayer,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley realised with a shock that the angel’s anger was now directed at _him_. “Could you have been any more vague? I thought you were supposed to be a demon. You should know better than to make open offers to the Enemy like that!"

Defensively, Crowley slid back into human-like form and backed against the other side of the couch. “I didn’t think anyone would listen."

“So it wasn’t a sincere offer?"

“Of course it was!"

“Then why would you make such a thoughtless prayer?" Aziraphale spread his hands helplessly.

“Because I love you!"

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, subsiding suddenly. “Of course you do. I’m sorry, dear. Tactless of me.” He patted Crowley’s knee comfortingly.

“S’right,” Crowley mumbled. It wasn’t like he technically needed his heart anyway. It could keep getting shattered on a daily basis. “Why are you smiling?” he lashed out at Michael.

“This love,” she said carefully, “manifested before you became unFallen?"

“Several thousand years before,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale blushed.

“And stayed steady all that time without consummation? Well, then.” She cheerfully took another sip, and blew on the tablet again. “This is the contract Uriel and Dagon drew up. Demonstration of unselfish love, no acts of lust, no attempts to make Aziraphale Fall. We didn’t make a formal offer for Crowley’s soul because they were ironing out the details, and indeed I thought it was an unfair provision. You have managed to break your chains anyway with the same prayer that formed the other offer, so Hell can hardly raise objections, so I fail to see what the problem is. This prayer contains a strong implied offer of chastity."

“Are you sure? I mean, if I thought I’d had any chance, I would have been on my knees begging him to fuck me."

“I’m right here, you know,” Aziraphale said, turning red.

“Well, did you?” asked Michael.

“No. I didn’t want to upset him.” Or be rejected again himself.

“Well done, my beloved child. I can’t wait to tell Uriel. She owes me a new marble palace for betting that you wouldn’t Ascend.”

“I don’t care about my Ascension. Give Aziraphale his fucking memories back!"

“I didn’t take them, and I don’t have the power to access them. I’m rather afraid,” she said gently, “that you’re going to have to negotiate with the former Archangel Gabriel for that.”

The demonic contract folded up in Crowley's hip pocket suddenly felt like an unbearable weight.

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Oh..."

“You’re not Falling, not if I can help it,” Crowley said grimly, taking his hand. “I’ll work something out."

Michael finished her cup. “This tea really is a very pleasant experience, Aziraphale. I must allow you to introduce me to more material pleasures, as the planet seems like it will be around for a while longer.” She touched the moth sigil, and a proposed agreement blossomed out of it, detailing that the demon Crowley be offered his former position in Heaven, and have his former sins and betrayal completely washed out in the eyes of the subject of the prayer.

“Sloppy,” she mused. "Wait, what’s this?” She touched a tiny spark above Gabriel’s sigil. It expanded, into a stylised lemon tree, and the note “With respect and love, query your interpretation of proffered contract, G. It seems to me that an offer of Ascension is not called for without extraordinary circumstances. More detailed alternative proposal follows. S.”

Crowley snatched it up, opened the proposal, and stared. Panic overwhelmed him, tightening his throat, hammering his heart. He thrust the tablet back at Michael. “We’re going. Thanks—thanks for your help,” he managed to force out.

“My pleasure. It’s a delight and a triumph to have a lost lamb back with us."

“Crowley, what--"

“We’re going. Now. I need to _think_ , and I can’t do it here."

Aziraphale touched the back of his hand. “If I can help at all, I will."

"You can’t. No one can. I have to think this through myself. Oh, fuck Sandalphon, the fucking _sadist._ What did I ever do to that bastard?"

“You know, your Ascension isn’t permanent yet,” said Michael, a little coldly.

“Yeah, I can see. Thank G-S-Existence for that. Angel, let’s _go._ ” He practically dragged Aziraphale to the escalator, past the confused Havani, and down. He held onto Aziraphale’s hand like a vice, and his mind screamed all the way down.

He thought he knew what he had to do. He just couldn’t face doing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Havani is the Yazata/angel in Zooastrainism presiding over the Second Watch (morning to midday).
> 
> 2) There are several different interpretations of the number of heavens and their content. I've gone with the one that places the sixth heaven as the one from which humanity is overlooked by angels, so Azirphale's team would likely be based there.
> 
> 3) Germain is a saint who records the deeds of beings.
> 
> 4) A moth is one of the symbols of Gabriel; a lemon tree is one of the symbols of Sandalphon
> 
> 5) Again, thank you for staying with me! This is by far the longest fanfic I've ever written, and it is amazing that people are staying with me through the twists and turns. You are amazing and lovely.


	19. Vaguely downwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley saunters. Aziraphale blazes.

“I really hate being an angel,” Crowley muttered, as the escalator descended and the atmosphere improved. “I always did. I mean, making the stars, that was fun, but it all seemed a bit of wasted effort, just so the humans could see some pretty sparks in the sky."

“I suppose you couldn’t take a quiet satisfaction in a job well done?” Aziraphale suggested, then took in Crowley’s glare. “No, no, sorry, silly of me."

“I hate the _rules._ "

“You can’t tell me Hell doesn’t have thousands of petty rules. Not with Dagon."

“Yeah, but we’re not expected to enjoy them. Or be grateful. I mean, yeah, Hail Satan, the Dark Prince likes his ego being flattered, but he doesn’t actually expect us to _love_ him."

“I can’t believe you just said Hail Satan while actually in Heaven.” Aziraphale winced.

“Well, _you_ just did. It suited you.” Crowley kicked his foot against the side of the escalator. It didn’t make a mark. “No, it didn’t. You _love_ being an angel. There was a while I hoped that you wouldn’t mind much being a demon, because you can’t follow rules either, but I knew I was fooling myself. You can’t walk into a wine bar without finding a lost soul to comfort."

“I’m sorry.” They left the Building and headed for the car.

“That’s not something to be sorry for. If you weren’t so damned kind, you would have told me to get lost the first time I tried to chat you up.”

“You became an angel again for my sake anyway,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Because you thought that was what I wanted."

Crowley put the Bentley into gear.“I might have made it work. If you remembered me. You would have _helped_. But without your help, and oh, bless, Gabriel knew just what to do. Put it into my head that he had replaced me, and bang went every chance I had. I started the big slope back down the moment I heard him flirting with you. Went bonkers with jealousy and insecurity. Started lying and manipulating and trying to seduce you straight away. Oh, Asmodeus is going to make a _great_ demon. Much better than me.” The car roared down the road. “Would be a thumb in the face to Her, too. A fallen angel welcomed back into the fold, and then going back to Hell."

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said again. “But I don’t—I think I _can’t_ have wanted you to be this unhappy.” Crowley looked into worried kind eyes, and wanted to cry and kiss him and scream and break the entire world.

“Yeah, I know. But I was the one who let down the end of the deal. No true repentance, Sandalphon nailed me on that. Michael is going to be really, really disappointed. Oh, Satan, please don’t let Asmodeus be my superior.” He screwed his eyes shut.

“Please keep your eyes open while driving!” Crowley opened his eyes obediently, and Aziraphale relaxed a little. Crowley reached for his glasses, reflecting that if he felt like closing them again, it was better for the angel not to know. "“Is there any way for you not to Fall again?” So much pain in Aziraphale’s voice. So much guilt in his own heart. Well, that would be all right. Part of being a demon was learning not to listen to guilt.

“No.” He accelerated again. "But there’s a way for you not to be unhappy about it. I won’t be unhappy either, really. Quite contented and enjoying myself immensely, I suspect. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Or he could walk into the nearest church and dip his head into the font. That seemed as inviting an idea as taking Sandalphon up on his offer.

“Do I get any choice in this matter?” Aziraphale asked, and there was cold anger in his voice.

In answer, Crowley lifted his hip, pulled Asmodeus' contract out of his pocket, and threw it onto Aziraphale’s lap as the Bentley roared down the street.

“So in essence, I’m to be some kind of a prize?” Aziraphale’s anger was like frozen nitrogen. “If I love you enough to agree to Fall together, then we both get an offer of special treatment in Hell. If not..."

“One last slow dive, and then I’m recalled from Earth for good. Yeah. Don't worry about it. I mean, there’s a loophole a planet wide. Idiot forgot to specify that you actually _had_ to Fall. You fall in love with me, I sacrifice my desires to your wellbeing, I get to stay on Earth as a demon, your wings stay white. When I found the bookmark—well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not signing the contract. It would be too easy to challenge anyway, because I can’t sign away _your_ soul. Asmodeus should have spent more time listening to Dagon lecture on infernal legalities.” He pulled up outside the bookshop. “All he’d manage is to get tied up in Heaven vs Hell legal disputes for the next few centuries."

“I see.” Aziraphale hesitated, hand on the car door. “Anthony—Crowley—"

“I have some time. I’ll get some rest and think. There is _always_ a way out,” he lied. "Um, ah, there are some flowers arriving today,” he added, wriggling with embarrassment. “I hope you like them."

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said gravely.

“You were always good with plants. I am, too, now,” he said, but couldn’t summon his usual pride. “I—“ He leaned forward and kissed Aziraphale’s lips, quickly, chastely. Even the chaste contact left him feeling a wreck. But it might be the last chance he had, ever. “Goodbye, angel."

“That sounds dreadfully final."

“It’s not. I’ll see you tomorrow, no matter what.” He hesitated. “Look, if I don’t come, come find me.” He rattled off the Mayfair address. “Promise? No matter what, I’ll always let you in."

“I will."

The angel left the car. Crowley pulled away without being able to look after him.

He didn’t remember driving to the flat, but that wasn’t really unusual. He left the Bentley in the garage, then walked slowly up.

He concentrated for a moment before entering the flat, then slowly pushed it open.

The white carpet, looking completely untrodden on, stretched from wall to wall. His sofa was immaculate and unsat on, neon tubes leaned on shining metal chairs. A door was open to a neat, shining office, forever perfect and unused. There were no pieces of art except the sketch of the _Mona Lisa_ , certainly no eagle plinth saved from a bombed church, or suggestive sculptures of angels and demons wrestling. Bookshelves held neatly arranged lines of expensive, unread books. Beautiful houseplants with glossy leaves carefully avoided shedding leaves on the carpet.

It was a temple of success to avoid spending time in as much as possible after a long day of spreading temptation and frustration, not a place to lounge around listening to opera and brooding over being unrequitedly in love with your best friend.

Perfect. And oddly familiar. He supposed he had Sandalphon to thank for that.

What Aziraphale had needed of him, had always needed of him, was friendship. He knew that. Friendship and balance, without all the guilt and pain of too much wanting, too much desperation, too much pressure. He had been given too much hope by _You go too fast_ , with the implication that all he had to do was slow down a bit. He’d known all along in his heart that what Aziraphale had really needed was for him to back off completely, and just be a friend.

That would involve annihilating a huge part of himself, that he had hugged to himself for thousands of years, but after all, he had promised to do _anything_. An open offer. Aziraphale was right, it had been an incompetent prayer from the point of view of his own desires, but it might all work out in the end. He’d never know otherwise.

He reached for the contract in his pocket and met only emptiness. That was right, he had given it to Aziraphale. It didn’t matter. It was time to pray again.

He sat on the immaculate, uncomfortable leather sofa and said, “All right, Sandalphon. I’m ready to deal."

* * *

Aziraphale’s anger and compassion were tangled closely together, and through them running the oddly bright strands of the gentle kiss left on his lips, the snake and seraph wound about him, the fingers laced in his, the bewildering strength of the love directed at him in the bookshop. He realised, quite sharply, that in his long sojourn on Earth, there had been a lot of pleasant, even beautiful experiences. He had loved serving Heaven and humankind and enjoying the pleasures of the Earth. Feeling tenderness and need directed at himself was an unknown experience.

Except perhaps it wasn’t. The evidence was that it wasn’t. Oh, he was _furious_.

Undoing tangles took patience, but Aziraphale was very ancient, and very patient when he had to be. There was no knitter or fisherman as practiced and meticulous as an angel could be.

He leaned against the door as he unlocked it, and said, “You might as well come out into the open. I think we need a chat."

Asmodeus stepped around the corner, the light glinting on his reflective sunglasses. “Well, hello to you too, honey. No dear for me anymore?"

They walked into the bookshop together, closing the door in the face of a hopeful customer. Then, going against instinct, Aziraphale opened the door again and apologised.

“I am so sorry, miss. Let me show you around my humble shop. My friend here is just going to read a document for me, and then explain it to me. I’m afraid,” he said, giving Asmodeus the nastiest look he was able to summon, “I can be a bit muddle-headed about contracts."

Asmodeus grinned, unabashed, and took the contract from his hand, disappearing with it into the back room.

Aziraphale took his time showing the lady around, steering her carefully away from his favourite piles, and even permitted her to buy some of his less treasured tomes. He did need some space for incoming acquisitions, he supposed. He took the time to think. His mind was working, untangling his thoughts, his hand half-consciously stroking the bookmark in his pocket.

He finally showed the lady off, happily clutching her bargain-priced acquisitions, overjoyed at what a wonderful bibliophile heaven she had found, with such a charming, helpful, generous owner. Aziraphale was vaguely aware that he was setting her up for a terrible disappointment on her next visit, but perhaps the two visits would cancel each other out, morally. He locked the door behind her.

Asmodeus was lounging on the couch in the backroom, wine in hand. “Hey, babe."

Aziraphale sniffed. “Well?"

“It’s not like you _would_ Fall on his behalf. You’re incorruptible, I should know. The whole thing is to correct an error that should never have happened. The demon Crowley doesn’t belong in the First Sphere of Heaven, any more than I do. He’d cause more havoc there than in being of use to my Master. You’re also much better off without him getting in your way. You may not remember it, but you were my subordinate. I still feel affection for you."

“You don’t think Crowley belongs in Heaven, yet you arranged for him to be there?"

Asmodeus shrugged. “I suppose he’s told you the whole story. Yes. Yes, I did. I was an Archangel then. My judgement was hampered by compassion. It was a very touching prayer."

“I wish I believed that."

“You should be grateful. I cut a deal with Sandalphon on your behalf, as thanks for services rendered. Your irrational devotion to the demon led to you being sentenced to extinction for going against the Almighty’s plans for Armageddon. Did he tell you that?"

“He indicated something of the kind, but not details.” Aziraphale sighed.

“And you trusted him?” Asmodeus put his feet on the table. “Interesting."

“I should trust you instead?"

“Of course not. We’re both demons at heart, even if he’s temporarily walking around in angelic form. The only difference is that I'm not a complete idiot."

Aziraphale hesitated. All the evidence he had seen so far indicated that Crowley was a natural liar, and highly strung, and clearly a dear, brave, sweet, devoted boy for someone who claimed to be a demon, yes, but perhaps the Almighty had not _massively_ overburdened Crowley with intellect. Some sense of loyalty, whether from the last few days or lost memories, made Aziraphale incapable of saying so.

“So what am I supposed to do?"

Asmodeus shrugged. “Nothing. He’ll burn himself out and Fall again soon enough. You go back to your life, do your good works, enjoy all the material pleasures you love so much, and retain some affection for your dear old supervisor and current drinking buddy."

“I see,” Aziraphale said slowly. “Speaking of which, I think I need a drink. A special drink.” He walked to the cabinet where he kept his cocoa supplies and pulled out a hip flask, decorated with wings and a Prince’s crown. He carefully unscrewed it and poured the clear contents into a cup. He took a small sip. “Asmodeus?"

“Hmm?"

Angelic wards clicked into place around the back room, the security system going into overdrive. Aziraphale had been on Earth a very very, long time. And there was always some stupid arrogant demon who thought he could win points with Hell by knocking out the longest residing angel.

“Give me back my bloody memories, or you’ll get holy water in the face."

Asmodeus leapt to his feet. “You soft little idiot, you wouldn’t dare!"

Aziraphale smiled at him. “You could probably wrench it from my hands and only get a few drops on you, too. Burn a couple of holes in your hands at worst. But if you attack me, how will you stop me from _spitting_?” He pulled a large gulp from his cup into his mouth.

Asmodeus looked wildly around, but the wards were in place. Aziraphale couldn’t speak, not with a mouth full. Still, he was confident that Asmodeus would realise the only way out was if he released them, even without the threat of the holy water.

“You smug little _bastard_!” All Asmodeus’ stored up hatred poured out, like pus from a lanced wound. “You have no real power, no abilities, yet you always manage to fuck things up! The best thing about being a demon is not having to pretend to be kind to your stupid fat face!"

Aziraphale took a step forwards.

“All right! Wait—Deal. Angel’s honour. You get your memories back, the wards go straight down and I return to Hell in peace."

Aziraphale nodded.

“All right.” Asmodeus made an angry gesture, and the memories flooded back.

For one moment, as they overwhelmed him, he faltered, and for one moment thought Asmodeus was going to attack. Then the demon left with large, angry strides, beautifully cut coat swinging like a vampire’s cape. Always so dramatic, demons.

Aziraphale waited until he was gone, then raised the heavenly wards again. He felt quite trembling and, after all, it was a relief to swallow. Holding that much neat vodka in his mouth for so long really stung.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head in his hands, but only for a moment.

“ _Crowley._ "

He headed for the streets, ready to hail a taxi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I think the most shocking plot twist I've had so far is to have Aziraphale sell some books.
> 
> 2) Yeah, Crowley is still not communicating well, and thinking everything is all on him instead of sufficiently trusting the angel. His mistake.


	20. A place to go back to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's London flat was the epitome of style. It was everything that a flat should be: spacious, white, elegantly furnished, and with that designer unlived-in look that only comes from not being lived in.

For the first time in his life, Aziraphale wished he could urge a driver to break the speed limit. There was a black pool of anxiety welling up in him. Why hadn’t he insisted on Crowley showing him Sandalphon’s offer? He might not have remembered Crowley all that well, but surely some part of him knew that the dear boy sometimes went off and brooded and came up with ridiculous risky schemes like stealing holy water. The only way to keep him safe was to be by his side.

Aziraphale stared out at the impossibly slow traffic. Really, he would be better off _walking_ , why hadn’t he caught the Underground? He avoided it usually, all that press of bodies and, worse, the press of too many human sins and needs and unfulfilled wishes all around him, too many to help. It also tended to be too hot and to wrinkle his suit. Still, he felt that time was of the essence.

It was Aziraphale's fault, his heart told him, if Crowley did anything reckless and stupid to protect him. Aziraphale had spent centuries encouraging the pattern of a demon swooping in to rescue and comfort him whenever things went wrong. When had that started? In the beginning, it had been Aziraphale who had been the protective one, showing kindness to a lonely demon, saving him from the desert, teaching him to write and to integrate with human society, to enjoys its pleasures.

Somehow, the script had flipped, and stayed flipped. The end of Kukkatarma, perhaps. Rather than disappearing with his doubts and fears like he had after the Ark, he had allowed himself to be tempted into being held and comforted and let Crowley rage against the Heavens on his behalf, just long enough to understand how wonderful that felt. By the time he had fled, it was too late, because then it was Egypt and being at wit’s end with Hagar and Ishmael and the fear of the consequences of his own rebellion, and a surprisingly kind demon coming in and making it right. Once he had accepted that he liked being rescued and have his pain soothed… well. Crowley had obviously enjoyed it as well. He wouldn’t have rescued and comforted quite as reliably if not, glowering and smirking his way through chivalrous acts as if that could disguise his own pleasure at being needed.

Aziraphale had told himself it was part of his good work, nurturing a spark of goodness in Crowley. Truthfully, he thought, trying to will the taxi to go faster, it had been vanity and pride. Secret, selfish, unacknowledged pleasure that a demon, a creature so utterly Fallen, still chose to please him, do little kind favours, save him from trouble, and ultimately even defy Satan for his sake. He would act against all the principles of Hell just for the sake of the angel's company and a grateful smile. Aziraphale’s sins stared him blankly in the face.

He prayed. _Dear Lord, give me your aid and guidance to make this right for both of us._ A careful prayer, no open offers, but from his whole heart and soul.

No answer. Of course, no answer. When was there one? Perhaps he should have Fallen right back in the Garden, the first time the demon smiled at him, and saved them both all this pain. If he had, this damned taxi would be going faster.

That was a thought. What would Crowley do? Ah, that was it. Just arrange that no one was in the car’s way.

Aziraphale smiled beatifically despite his anxiety. “I think you can speed up now, my dear lady."

The cab driver looked dazedly at the suddenly unobstructed road in front of them, other vehicles peeling aside. “I—uh—“ Aziraphale reached out and touched her arm soothingly. A small blessing. The woman’s face cleared, and the taxi leapt forward.

* * *

Crowley never bothered to knock on the shop door, but Aziraphale was an angel. In any case, he didn’t want to risk walking in on Crowley doing, ah… His mind sought for a concrete example, shied away from any that came up, and settled on catching him doing _demonic things_ in the flat.

The door swung open on a scowl. “I don’t need any bloody—oh, Aziraphale. What are you doing here?"

Aziraphale blinked uncertainly at him. Crowley looked sleep-rumpled, his hair less beautifully styled than usual, his tie askew. “You said that if you didn’t come to the shop, to come over and check on you,” he said, ignoring that Crowley had said _tomorrow._

“Did I?” Crowley passed his hand over his dark hair, restoring it to its usual perfection, and gave him a small smile. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, as if the word meant nothing in particular, “I was napping. Don’t hang around on the doorstep waiting for permission, come in. I’ll make some coffee."

“Tea, for me,” Aziraphale said automatically, and Crowley made a slight face, humorous annoyance with a touch of reluctant fondness.

"Sit down, Aziraphale. I’ll make you some tea. I bought a fantastic tea maker, it should get some use."

“Barbarism,” said Aziraphale, feeling strangely lost, as he crossed the deep pile carpet and took a seat on the horrendously uncomfortable leather couch.

“Luddite.” He watched Crowley cross to the kitchen part of the open-plan flat, suit now uncreased and lying perfectly tailored over his thin form.

The flat was quite nice, really, but it had the cold feel of Heaven about it, with the bright neon light and all the white. Fashionable, he supposed. And kind of sad, really. Not that he would ever point that out to the dear boy, that would be unkind, not unless Crowley was being _really_ irritating and in need of putting in place. Aziraphale wondered why he had expected the room to be somehow darker, and more dramatic. Silly of him. Crowley put in far too much effort pretending to be a polished young professional to harm his image with infernal styling. At least he had some nice houseplants.

“So, what was so terribly urgent that I needed checking on? Not that I mind the company, I mean, I suppose there’s no need to run around playing secret agents anymore.” Crowley handed him a teacup, and Aziraphale sniffed it cautiously. It smelled quite delicious, despite the ominous mention of a tea maker.

“Have you heard anything unusual from Down There?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah.” Crowley settled in the chair opposite him, tiny espresso glass in his own hand. "I think you were right, they are going to pretend nothing much happened. Yours?"

“Nothing."

"So business as usual, I suppose. Well, not quite as usual.” Crowley met Aziraphale’s kindly smile and looked away, looking embarrassed and a little pleased at the unmasked affection.

They talked vaguely of music while Aziraphale drank his tea, arguing mildly about the relative joys of record players and high fidelity systems with over equalised and, Aziraphale held, soulless music, and agreeing that live was better anyway and they should really get some concert tickets. After all, concerts were one of their usual rendezvous when they needed to exchange information, so they were familiar ground.

Crowley’s own choice of music seemed a bit odd. _Adagio in G minor_ , of all things, sighing with loss in the background. Why loss, when they had won, and come through remarkably well, all things said? Perhaps he was trying to start an argument about its authorship, but Aziraphale was no mood to bicker, for once. Or perhaps it was simply that it was beautiful, and not Queen.

“Look, I have some work to be getting on with soon, havoc to cause, that kind of thing, and I’m sure you have some good deeds that need doing and books not to sell, but how about meeting me at Claridge’s for dinner? I haven’t had their lobster in truffle sauce for ages, and I know you'll love their Île flotante.” The demon frowned at the ceiling as if pretending that it didn’t matter at all that he was suggesting a purely social meet-up, no pretence about it being about the Arrangement. The dear boy could be really considerate, sometimes, for the Enemy.

“I suppose we’ve earned a treat,” Aziraphale said pleasantly, climbing to his feet. “Saving the world, and all that. Well, you’re right, I must be getting on. I’m glad everything was all right here."

Crowley looked puzzled for a moment, as if wondering why it wouldn’t be. “See you tonight.” He stood abruptly, with serpentine grace, and for an odd minute Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was going to hug him. That would be extraordinarily out of character. Crowley wasn’t at all the demonstrative type. Instead, Crowley gave him a half-smile, corners of his eyes crinkling a little beside his dark glasses.

“See you at half eight, angel. I’ll pick you up."

“I’ll take a taxi,” Aziraphale said firmly, shuddering at the thought of getting in that black case again, and Crowley laughed.

“You’d be safer with me. All right, then."

“All right, then,” Aziraphale echoed, and left.

He was pleased, of course he was. It meant more to him than he probably should admit that his relationship with the demon was proceeding on more openly friendly terms. Now the threat of the Antichrist was all over, he could admit to himself how much their long history together meant to him, how much Crowley’s friendship had _always_ meant to him.

He couldn’t understand why he was feeling such a terrible sense of loss. After all, everything had worked out for the best in all possible worlds. The Almighty always, in the end, looked after her children, even the wicked ones like Crowley.

Perhaps it was that damnable music.

* * *

The afternoon and early evening passed quickly enough. Someone came in with an eye to selling the books from her grandmother’s estate, and after relieving his conscience with a quick check to ensure the lady had indeed passed on to her happy reward and didn’t care about material objects, Aziraphale had a delightful time negotiating.

He finally finished the business and sighed happily. An hour still until he had to meet Crowley. Time to relax and gloat on the incoming treasures. There was a knock on the door, and he called out “We’re closed!"

“Not to your brother in Heaven, surely,” said a jolly voice, and Aziraphale looked up at a breath of lemon.

“Ah, Sandalphon.” He repressed a slight sense of unease. He probably shouldn’t admit to it, even to himself, but he heartily disliked Sandalphon. He couldn’t look at him without remembering Sodom and Gomorrah. Yet they said Sandalphon had actually been a human himself before Ascension. It hardly bore thinking about. Crowley had much more genuine feeling for humans, and he was a demon who cheerfully spent his existence tormenting them.

Besides, Aziraphale secretly felt that any Archangel of Music who did such a terrible job of securing talented musicians for Heaven should resign the title.

“What can I do to help you?” he asked anyway, always courteous.

“Well, you know what a stickler Michael can be.” Sandalphon dropped into the occasional chair that Crowley, well, occasionally used, when he came around the book shop. Aziraphale repressed an odd flash of resentment. “She says your consent is needed on this one, and I have to admit she was right, contractually speaking. So we just gave you a temporary change according to the demon’s wishes, to see how you felt, and now I suppose it’s up to you."

“Whatever do you mean?” said Aziraphale, and then it all came back.

Two sets of memories. Two. A long, comfortable, mostly unspoken friendship across the millennia, important to them both, a source of comfort and pleasure, but not speaking aloud. And the other—longing, frustration, fear, pain. Forever hurting each other. The memories fought each other.

“You changed my memories of him _again_?” Aziraphale said, shaking with rage.

Sandalphon clicked his tongue at him. “No, we just gave you a taste of a different path, so you know what you’re choosing. The offer was for the demon to be what you wanted, not what he _thought_ you wanted. Gabriel just deliberately took it that way, even though there was no sign of a clear enough repentance to unFall anyway, if you ask me. Bad faith contract. I’m not surprised Gabriel Fell himself.” He smiled, contemplating the ceiling. “Not that I’m complaining about a sudden vacuum in power, to be honest."

“You want to take and change my memories when I just got them back.” The fury was cascading through him again.

“Oh, nothing as namby-pamby as that. We’re letting you choose your past from, shall we say, the most readily available ones. I mean, we can’t change the really big things. Apocalypse still failed, you’re still a traitor to Heaven who miraculously still has white wings through some ineffable decision of the Almighty, you and the demon are still irritating codependent brats. Gabriel, well, he Fell well and truly, and good riddance to him. But you get to choose what you and the demon are to each other."

“Why _me_? Surely this is Crowley’s decision as well?"

“Oh, yes. He’s made his. He Rose, and then Fell _again_. I’d advise you to both keep out of Michael’s way for a while, she’s ropable about having to build Uriel a palace. The Serpent's only caveat was that we make a deal with Hell that Asmodeus doesn’t get to touch or punish him, and they were willing enough, just for the chance to stop a precedent of Ascending demons.” Aziraphale felt a small moment of pride that Crowley hadn’t forgotten his common sense entirely, if Falling twice could be considered to be sensible. "But the two of you have to sort it out somehow. Can’t make decisions for each other, when there’s two sincere prayers. You have to find a way not to let them conflict."

“If we don’t?"

Sandalphon smiled unpleasantly. “Good luck with that, then. We won’t wait forever. You know, you _both_ could Fall. That would be the easiest way all around, from my perspective."

Then he was gone.

Aziraphale reached out a shaking hand to his antique phone. It was answered before the first ring was even finished.

“Aziraphale."

“What colour is your hair?"

A shaky laugh. “Auburn. I think. For now. But a bit darker than usual. Angel, you have to understand, this is for the best for both of us. Weren’t you _happy_ that way?"

Yes. He had been. Perfectly content. Looking forward to a lovely life on Earth among his books, and continuing an ancient and dear friendship. The truth of that was undeniable.

“Crowley, would you be so kind as to pick me up for dinner after all?"

It was only a few seconds’ silence, but the anxiety and unspoken sentences were almost audible. “All right. See you in a few minutes.” The next two words were almost there, Aziraphale could almost hear them, _love you_. Perhaps they had been mouthed. He was sure Crowley never intended to speak them aloud again.

Aziraphale gently replaced the receiver in its cradle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) As always, I’ll keep the   
> [ 6,000 Years of Angsty Pining ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994833)  
>  updated if you want some super heartbreaking music to Angst with. "Adagio in G Minor" is frequently attributed to the 18th century and Tomaso Albioni, but is more properly regarded as a twentieth century composition by Remo Giazatto. I actually have a _Good Omens_ scene in my head somewhere about that… Anyway, if you want some music to make you cry, can’t do better, really.  
> 
> 
> 2) Happy ending in next update. :) We’ve run out of contracts. Love to you all, hope you feel the various strands are all tying up properly. Thank you for staying with me.  
> 
> 
> 3) Updated note as there was some confused feedback from readers who hadn't read the book. The white late 1980s flat, dark hair, different relationship, lack of punishment from Heaven or Hell, far less highly strung and more yuppie Crowley is book canon. It was really fun to write book!canon Crowley and Aziraphale, it has been a long time.


	21. Floating Islands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anything he needs me to be."

Crowley couldn’t help feeling a bit like a puppy slinking back in after his mistress had found her chewed up shoe, as he pushed into the shop. Or a chewed up book? No, he wasn’t actually that scared. He was pretty sure Aziraphale wouldn’t quite discorporate him. He still felt guilty and, because of that, bristling and defiant.

Aziraphale greeted him with a quiet, assessing look. No waspish remark, no blazing anger. The mild contemplation and the lack of comment on his dark glasses and demonic state was worse than being scolded, especially when the clear gaze fell on his chest, where the invisible chains lay again, as if he could see them.

“Well, dear, let’s be off,” Aziraphale said at last.

Crowley managed to sway semi-arrogantly rather than lurch to the Bentley. He paused before he started the engine. “Angel,” he said, and stopped.

“It’s quite all right,” Aziraphale said. “I talked to Sandalphon. We’ll talk over lunch."

The Bentley might have been a bit out of sorts, because it played Queen for the short drive back to Mayfair. Crowley tried three CDs and was hit with _You Take My Breath Away_ , _One Year of Love_ and _Love Me Like There’s No Tomorrow_ in quick succession. Aziraphale stopped him trying to shove on a William Walton CD in a desperate attempt to escape too-apposite lyrics.

“Please not that, _or_ more bebop,” he said wearily. "Just drive."

They didn’t talk much until they were seated in the Reading Room at Claridge’s, had disposed of the canapés and first course, and Crowley was picking moodily at his lobster risotto in truffle sauce. “Why do I keep ordering things with truffles? You’d think I’d learn from my mistakes the first seven hundred times or so. I always think I fancy truffles, and then they taste like licking the walls in Hell."

“I’m not going to ask how you know that.” Aziraphale pushed over his plate of lamb, which Crowley was startled to notice was untouched. “Fortunately, I love truffles, I know your moods, and I remember how to order for you.” He daintily picked up the rejected risotto and brought it to his place.

Crowley stared at him, stunned, and Aziraphale gleamed back at him, radiant as a small sun, and took a forkful of risotto. “Angel. You _remember._ Everything."

“I had a productive little chat with Asmodeus.” Aziraphale twinkled at him.

“You _what_?” Crowley hadn’t been so deliciously taken aback since the garden of Eden.

Aziraphale told him, glowing and practically tittering, and Crowley hd no trouble responding with proper amazement and admiration and laughter and ego-stroking. It was only afterwards that he said, quieting down, “I suppose you think I let you down terribly by choosing to Fall again."

“No,” said Aziraphale unexpectedly. “I was upset at first. But I had time to think on your way over, and in the car. It was very noble of you to want to Rise for my sake, but it was also, I think, wrong. You had no genuine repentance or desire to return to Her in your heart, and Gabriel knew that. That’s why the contract could only work through deceit on his part, and you would have Fallen again.” He smiled faintly. “You like being bad, even though sometimes you can’t help being a bit good. I need to accept that about you."

“And you like being good, even though sometimes you can’t help being a bit bad.” Crowley said heavily. “I need to accept that about _you_. Always on opposite sides. I just—I just wanted to be what you wanted, be on the same side for real so we could spend time together and both stop hurting each other so blessedly much.” He gulped down a glass of _Le Grande Anne_ , which would have gone better with the lobster. At least Bollinger was always pretty acceptable. And why was his cowardly mind skittering off into wine matching? “I always wanted to be on our own side more than anything."

“I need to tell you,” Aziraphale said, looking down at his own glass, hand curving softly around it, “about the visit Uriel and Dagon made to me, so you can understand why I was acting like I did."

Crowley listened, and then he laughed, because it was that or scream and cry. “We are the worst. We are completely the worst. Six thousand years, and we still don’t talk to each other about the big things."

“I thought I could save you,” Aziraphale said, in a very small voice.

“You should be old and wise enough to recognise a trap when you see one. I wouldn’t have been saved. I would have tried to seduce you and you would have agreed to have _Fallen_ , and it would have been my fault. Personal Hell, right there."

“I don’t think Michael meant it to be a trap."

“Yeah, well, Michael and Uriel should know better than to collaborate with Hell.” Crowley whistled. “Good old Dagon. More than happy to send me for a bath in holy water after all our time working together, but seems they still have a soft spot for you. You really are irresistible to demons."

“Don’t be silly.” Aziraphale blushed to the roots of his hair, just as his dessert arrived.

“Which brings us to Sandalphon’s offer,” Crowley said, and the words fell into the room like bricks.

“He said you agreed to it. If I consent."

“Yeah.” Crowley watched Aziraphale take a spoonful of meringue and swirl it in the custard, lift it to his mouth and chew. There was something magical about the process. Crowley didn’t particularly enjoy dessert in general, let alone jumped-up nursery food like _îles flottantes_. Still, watching the angel, he could almost taste the crisp sweet chewiness of the meringue, the way it contrasted with the creaminess of the custard, far more vividly than if he ate it himself. After all, he didn’t even _like_ custard. Aziraphale swallowed and delicately removed a crumb of meringue from his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, and Crowley sighed. The blessed angel was like temptation incarnate, and didn’t even know it. No wonder demons were drawn to him.

Crowley worked on his next glass of booze. Well, convince Aziraphale to accept Sandalphon’s offer, and watching Aziraphale eat would no longer be sweet torture. He told himself it would be easier.

As if picking up on his thought, Aziraphale said, “Were you happier the way? I mean, at the flat."

“Happy is a lot to ask, angel.” It felt like echoing something. “I’m a demon, I don’t really do happy. That’s for your lot. I was—enjoying myself. Looking forward to spending more time with you, not having to sneak around. Pleased about the future. Expecting _fun_."

“In less pain,” Aziraphale said, and his eyes were very kind, and sad.

“Not in any pain at all. You see, it’s better.” The words come out in a rush. “We don’t lose memories, hardly any at all.” Just the moment of sunlight and falling in love on the Wall. Just the times they lived together, back in a newer world. Just years of aching and longing and rejection. “Six thousand years of best friendship, still. All the world to each other."

“Some things changed."

“Yeah. I mean, they would. I mean, I have to accept that _he_ was a bit of a prat. Looks like without trying—I mean _succeeding_ —in being all sexy to impress you, I naturally run to dressing like an executive.” He shuddered.

“I liked the suit.” Aziraphale circled his spoon in his merengue. "Very attractive."

“You’re telling me that instead of pouring myself into jeans that barely let me walk, all I needed to do for you was wear a _nice suit_?” Crowley caught himself. No even _talking_ about temptation.

“You can’t tell me you actually climb into your jeans instead of just clicking your fingers."

“Well, no. But that’s not the point.” Crowley shook his head. “Actually, the point is, were _you_ happier?"

“I wasn’t unhappy,” Aziraphale said slowly. “I was—yes, I was happy. Because I could tell you were fond of me, because we had time to spend together. The beginning of the rest of our lives."

“Well then,” Crowley said flatly. “You see my point. And it doesn’t mean—well, not forever. If I’m not pressuring you and tempting you and making you run away all the time, post-Antichrist crisis might—well. We were planning on spending a lot of time together. It might happen naturally. At your speed.” Oh, why was he such an idiot? Even when contemplating pure friendship, he couldn’t get rid of hope cutting into his soul like a knife. But that would go away when Aziraphale chose.

“Oh, let’s go home,” Aziraphale said abruptly, almost peevishly. “It’s too hard talking here.” He pushed away his half finished dessert, which was a miracle all on its own.

“Which home?"

“Oh, mine. I don’t think I can bear playing Schrödinger's flat."

The trip back to the bookshop was silent, except for the somehow screamingly loud fact of Aziraphale’s hand on his thigh, fingers digging in so hard that Crowley wondered if he would bruise. Aziraphale didn’t seem to realise he was doing it, and Crowley didn’t dare comment. After all, this would probably be the first and last time it ever happened, so he didn’t want to risk interrupting.

Not that he would remember it. Well, take his thrills where he could, while he could.

Remembering how to walk was even more complicated than usual, until Aziraphale slipped hand to his back and guided him, like he had outside the wine bar. How could that have been only a few days ago? How could he cope with the idea that it wouldn’t happen again? But then, it wouldn’t hurt. He wouldn’t miss something he’d never even considered. And he would have Aziraphale in his life.

The bookshop was warm and crowded, not just with books but with _things_. Notes, bookmarks, silver snuffboxes, pictures, knickknacks, statues, programmes, jewellery. Mementos. Aziraphale stuffed his surroundings with memories, and rarely gave up anything he had become attached to. The bookshop held centuries of memories. Asmodeus—Gabriel—had _been_ here, and was extremely intelligent. Taking the memory of someone like that had to have been calculated cruelty.

Crowley felt a flicker of guilt, especially when his gaze fell on an ancient board game stuffed behind a lamp. Maybe they would remember the game anyway.

“The exact words of your offer,” Aziraphale said eventually.

“Nah, it’s too embarrassing.” Crowley fidgeted. “They weren’t actually meant to be spoken aloud."

“All right. Let’s have some music to ease it.” Aziraphale gestured, and the gramophone began to play. _The Duet of Prunier and Lisette_ , in the middle of Prunier objecting to Lisette’s fashion taste. Oh, _really_. Why _La Rondine_ , of all things? He could at least have picked something with a happy ending even if he wanted operetta, which probably meant no Puccini, but even so. And why this song? Were they going to start bickering about clothes again already, with so much to settle?

“I _like_ this jacket,"" Crowley muttered. “But I can get used to suits."

“I know, my dear.” Aziraphale reached out and took both his hands in his, and Crowley immediately shut up, his brain stopping working. “It’s a very nice jacket and you look lovely in it."

“Thankss.” Human talking was hard.

"Just let me be able to be what he needs. Whatever he needs me to become, I’ll become,” Aziraphale said softly.

> Muses, forgive me for abandoning my vocation, but I love her to distraction

Crowley didn’t know where to look or what to say. He stared at the ceiling. “Yeah."

“What makes you think you weren’t already exactly what I need?"

> \- Someone loves me?  
>  \- I’m that someone.

“Six thousand years of evidence,” Crowley said bitterly. “Also, I’m a demon, and you’re an angel."

Aziraphale stepped closer, hands still linked, and pressed his warm mouth to Crowleys cool one.

> \- Who will kiss me?  
>  \- These lips of mine will.

What was left of Crowley’s brain seemed to short circuit. He couldn’t even kiss back. He just stood there, feeling like Aziraphale had hit him over the back of the head with a velvet wrapped brick, clutching the angel's hands like a lifeline.

> Can you tell me why they will?

Aziraphale pulled away, looking shy and a bit disconcerted by the lack of response. “Was that all right?"

> To assure you that I’m yours heart and soul

“Wh—why?” Crowley stammered. “Why now?"

“I don’t think it was the lack of, ahem, this kind of feeling that made us happier in the other reality,” Aziraphale said. “It’s that you weren’t trying to tempt me, and I wasn’t trying to save you. We were content being an angel and a demon and letting each other be so."

> Forevermore.

“Th-this kind of feeling,” Crowley repeated blankly.

Aziraphale kissed him again, more forcefully and more tenderly all at once, lips moving to part Crowley’s, and it was good, so good, it was better than years of imagining, heat was flooding through Crowley, but the demon's heart was hammering and he was panicking.

“ _I don’t want to be a temptation any more_ ,” he repeated.

“That’s fine.” Aziraphale kissed the corner of his mouth, then the other side.

“Then what is this about?"

“Love.” The stars were crashing around Crowley, and he thought he recognised some of them as they flamed. “A choice. I love you, I want you, I choose you; you are all I need."

“Angel. My angel.” He released his hands at last and pulled Aziraphale tight against him, the soft coat and vest and softer self under, the surprising strength of rounded arms going around him in return. He pressed his face against the angel’s hair and breathed in expensive shampoo. “I—I— His chains lay between them, strangling the words.

“You can’t say it any more, I know.” Aziraphale ran a hand down his spine, and Crowley shuddered. “So show me."

“Aren’t you afraid of Falling?” He was kissing the pale curls despite all his resolutions to convince Aziraphale to be just friends.

“I won’t Fall. This isn’t about sin. I _love_ you, Crowley. I love you so much, and I need your love, _all_ of it, and I won’t ever allow this to be taken away from me again.”

“Dagon and Michael warned you not to confuse lust with love,” Crowley managed, despite the still exploding stars and the hair that had somehow become stuck on his tongue. He was afraid spitting it out would be less than suave.

Aziraphale chuckled at him, the most delicious sound, delight and joy and sunshine and blazing angelic fire intermingled. “Why can’t I have _both?_ "

Crowley couldn’t think of a single reason, although he was aware his brain was not at full-functioning capacity. He surreptitiously snapped his fingers behind Aziraphale’s back to clear the hair from his mouth, and sharply nipped Aziraphale’s earlobe to distract him from what he was doing.

"Wicked snake.” The gently chiding tone made the stars reform themselves just to go supernova with desire. "Besides, do you really want Sandalphon to be proved right?"

“Absolutely not,” Crowley said fervently, and kissed him deeply and possessively, the way he had always wanted to, feeling hands catch in his hair and Aziraphale’s mouth opening eagerly and returning passion for passion, longing for longing. This had to be some kind of trick, nothing so perfect could be true, Asmodeus or someone was going to pop out and burst the bubble at any moment, but who could blame him for taking what he could from this delirious moment?

“That’s not a normal human tongue, I’m sure."

“Sorry, if you would prefer I can—“ Crowley said, and was pulled closer, tighter.

“No, you’re perfect, perfect as you are. My darling."

“Too many clothes,” Crowley muttered against Aziraphale’s neck, trying to shove his coat off his shoulders without losing contact between lips and warm skin. “Why didn’t we go back to my flat if this is what you had in mind?” He looked around, looking for somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t crowded with books and flotsam. There wasn’t even a reasonably sized couch, a decent stretch of floor or a handy wall that could be pressed against without risking an avalanche of books and ornaments. Perhaps the door? The kitchen table seemed to lack romance for a first time. “At least I have a bedroom."

Aziraphale was breathing heavily as he cooperated in being divested of his coat and didn’t even complain about it being tossed on a chair. “I have a bedroom. Why ever would I not?"

“Why ever _would_ you?”Crowley lifted his head suspiciously. “Who have you—"

“I need a residence for tax purposes. You know I always try to do my taxes properly. And they might check."

“I think Schrödinger's flat is less confusing than Schrödinger's bedroom."

“You do babble nonsense at the strangest times, my dearest,” said Aziraphale, with a kind of stern tenderness that melted every remaining bone in Crowley’s body.

“Why are you always so _radiant_?” he asked, voice as unsteady as his legs, aware that he was as far from being cool as he possibly could be, and let a warm arm around his waist guide him up the stairs, and there, at the East point of the shop compass—of course it was the East, of course, above the office—there was a door between the books and a perfectly reasonable bed, at least once he’d magicked the books off it and onto shelves. A single bed, because bless Aziraphale, Crowley would have to get him a new bed tomorrow if they were going to keep this up, which they were, or Crowley would go mad. And get rid of the tartan covers. But it was going to be _fine_.

“You are shadows and fire and everything, everything, and I love you,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Now who’s babbling? And I do—you know I do—always—"

“I know. I know, my darling boy."

His own jacket was gone, and his shirt, never well done up at the best of times, was open without him remembering dealing with it either, the snakehead buckle was dangling loosely from his belt, but Aziraphale's hands were trembling and Crowley wasn’t entirely sure it was all with desire. He took his time, letting the angel calm down. He gently unbuttoned Aziraphale's worn, beautiful waistcoat, soft and touchable as Aziraphale himself, unknotted and removed the tie. unhooked the pocket waist chain, removed the cuff links with deft fingers and set them carefully on the bedside table among more books. He tried to communicate care and comfort and _cherishing_ with each movement, remembering that Aziraphale had asked him to show love if he couldn’t say it.

The trembling settled a little, and Crowley lingeringly kissed the wrist at one open cuff, touching his tongue to the pulse flickering there. “I’m with you, angel. I will stay by your side."

“I know, my dearest,” Aziraphale said again. “You always do." His voice was so rich with love that there was no room for fear or doubt, just kisses and touches and embraces and being able to slide his hands down the back of firm heavy thighs and savour the feeling, pull the solid weight over him, comforting and exciting all at once. His jeans were too tight but gentle, affectionate hands were undoing them and yes, right there, holding and stroking.

Crowley had imagined so much, so many times, but for this first time, simple and close and perfect was what he needed, legs hooked around each other, chests pressed together, drowning in kisses, as if they were trying to dissolve the boundaries between each other. He hungrily devoured every moment, every unexpected sound pulled from Aziraphale by touch and caress, Ingraining on his memory forever the way Aziraphale looked at climax, as if surprised by overwhelming sweetness, so that Crowley gasped “Angel, angel,” out of a mouth that could barely form the endearment and pressed up, that lovely, perfect hand wrapped around him as he fell apart.

Slow, deep kisses pulled him back together, and he melted into the embrace, stroking soft curls, luxuriating in being held and loved and feeling adored, the aching painful sense of emptiness he had held for thousands of years filled with light. Oh, he would be embarrassed later at the nakedness of his need to be doted on, he supposed, when he was more calm, but right now, this was his everything, and he had waited so long.

“I still seem to be an angel,” Aziraphale remarked with what sounded like mild surprise some minutes later, and Crowley laughed ruefully into his shoulder.

“Oh, you sneaky _bastard_. You were only pretending to be confident you wouldn’t Fall."

“I was pretty confident,” Aziraphale said defensively.

“Nrghk,” Crowley said doubtfully and kissed his shoulder. “I’m glad. Someone with your light should not be in Hell."

“Well, apparently I’d appreciate the taste of the walls better than you do,” said Aziraphale, which set Crowley off into laughter he was sure was half hysterical. Aziraphale held him through it, patting his back.

“I’m surprised I didn’t Rise, frankly,” Crowley said when he’d calmed down a little. “It felt like I would there, for a moment."

“It would be worth seeing Uriel’s face,” Aziraphale said peacefully, fingers playing in his hair. “I think Michael deserves a new palace. But would you be able to stick to it?"

“Nah.” Crowley was grinning. “I’d Fall again fast enough. But if I Rise every time we fuck, I’m planning on bouncing back and forth between Heaven and Hell like a ping pong ball. Uriel and Michael will be building each other entire celestial cities."

“Just think of all the paperwork,” Aziraphale said, pink again.

“Yeah, I’d be Dagon’s favourite again in no time.” Crowley’s smile faded a little. Asmodeus might be in Dagon's team with him, and that was a worrying thought. At least he had made Falling dependent on Asmodeus being unable to touch him, regardless of whether he took Sandalphon’s offer or not. Maybe not having Gabriel in Heaven would make things a lot easier on Aziraphale, which would be worth any amount of trouble when it came to that.

"I love you so much,” Crowley said as protective thoughts overwhelmed him. He bit his lip, aware of what he had just said, but the chains binding him to Hell were still there, and not burning or freezing him.

“Well, how about that,” Aziraphale breathed. “I have no idea what the rules are for us any more."

“Me neither.” He pinched Aziraphale’s cushioned hip lightly. “And the correct response is _I love you too, my perfect, sexy, amazingly talented Serpent._ "

“I love you too, Serpent."

“That will do. For now. We have plenty of time to practice proper praise.” He stroked where he had pinched. “No more contracts, no more deception, no more forgetting. Oh, my angel, my love, my sweetheart, why couldn’t we end up here before? Was there a point to any of that?"

“All of it, perhaps,” Aziraphale said, his face thoughtful. “I needed to know, really really know, what I really wanted and needed—and so did you, my dearest love. Best to assume that She knows exactly what She's doing."

“Don’t bring faith into it, please,” Crowley grumbled. “My only faith is in you."

“If you have faith in love, then it’s all one and the same. And I do love you, so so much."

“I love you too,” said Crowley, because he could, and because he would say it forever.

He snuggled up. He knew without asking that Aziraphale would stay with him until he was asleep, and then would be close by, bustling around the shop, busy and—happy. Angels were made for happiness. Those blue eyes were practically incandescent with happiness. Crowley, Fallen as he was, had helped to make that happiness. Demons could be happy too, apparently, so happy that the world could barely contain the happiness. Maybe angelic stock didn’t change as much as he’d thought.

He’d redecorate the flat, he supposed. Not cold concrete, and not a freezing imitation of Heaven. Nothing as chaotic as here, either, but comfortable enough for Aziraphale. They’d compromise somehow. A big bed. This room wasn’t really big enough for one, and they were cramped up in a small space. He’d have to drive Aziraphale to work in the mornings. After Aziraphale made breakfast. He was sure Aziraphale made wonderful indulgent breakfasts, although Crowley would probably have to teach him to make coffee.

His thoughts were rambling and uninfernally domestic and sleep was creeping up over him, almost as warm as Aziraphale's embrace. Six thousand years of memories, and now the future spreading in front of them, unknown but full of love.

“Goodnight, angel,” Crowley said, and this time the angel didn’t leave his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Thank you to you all so much for getting here. Hope the ending was worth your patience.
> 
> 2) The Duet of Prunier and Lisette/T’amo! Menti (I love you! Liar!) really is a weird mixture of being nasty about hats and jackets and soppy love declarations. From Puccini’s La Rondine, libretto by Alfred Maria Willner and Heinz Reichert.
> 
> 3) Sorry to be behind on comments, but I really really wanted to get this finished and up, and it was a longer chapter than usual. I will catch up! Every comment is appreciated.  
> 4) What’s next? I have a lighter, fluffier (so far!) story about checking in on Warlock starting up, which is unlikely to turn into a twisty angsty epic. Will probably upload in the next few hours. I’m also deep into researching and planning a longer story which will be set in the fourteenth bloody century, and why Crowley hated it (history and pining) and also how he managed to keep his optimism and belief the universe would look after him (angel), and probably will be more angsty and full of historical fashion, yay. I’ve also joined the Ineffable Husbands Bingo. Hope you will join me, but either way—thank you, my rock-solid darlings.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Thanks--I guess?--to Answers in Genesis and Conservapedia (never thought I'd write that) for the Young Earth Creationist timeline.
> 
> 2) I just can't imagine Aziraphale with a long oiled, curly beard. Call it a failure of imagination.
> 
> 3) Thank you for joining me. Hopefully it will be a fun ride.


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